


Unrevealed Truths (The Coronation of the High Hierophant)

by circular time (auronlu)



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: And I'm Stealing It, Gratuitous ballet, Miscommunication, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Queer Character, Stand Back I'm A Writer I Know What I'm Doing With This Cliché, Trans Character, Trope Subversion, UST, What the French Baroque Period Did to Roman Mythology Is Utter Crack, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auronlu/pseuds/circular%20time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a human colony where Baroque France and classical Rome are so far in Earth’s legendary past that both are mined for “wisdom of the ancients,” the Fifth Doctor and Nyssa are swept into a fantastic world of pageantry, allegory, advanced gravitational engineering, dance and court intrigue. </p><p>The Doctor believes Nyssa has found true love. Nyssa believes she has found someone who needs their help. After the Doctor leaves Nyssa to her new life, she’s forced to embrace the masquerade far more deeply than she had intended.  Will the Doctor defy the Web of Time to extricate her from the jaws of history?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Le Roi Danse

**Author's Note:**

> Minor spoilers for: Big Finish 1001 Nights, Demons of Red Lodge, Circular Time "Autumn," Eternal Summer, Spare Parts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Nyssa travel to a human colony where Baroque France and classical Greece are so far in Earth's legendary past that both are regarded as "wisdom of the ancients," resulting in some spectacular costuming and customs.

 

_“You’re quite sure this outfit isn’t a little too showy?”_

_“Nothing’s too showy for the Grand Coronation of the High Hierophant of the Five Revealed Truths.” — BFA_ [ _1001 Nights_ ](https://www.bigfinish.com/releases/v/1001-nights-336)

 

“You were right, Doctor. Compared to everyone else, I feel practically plain.” Nyssa lifted her shell half-mask to glance down at her décolletage, where traceries of green and blue tendrils dwindled to feathery swirls. Her gown was fashioned of beaded appliqués affixed to a sheer mesh, with just enough coverage not to offend his own sensibilities. The effect was that of a petite Venus demurely sheathed in ribbons of seawater.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I’m sure you embody the spirit of something-or-other. Personification is all the rage here.” Privately, he thought the Hierophant would condone her lack of jewelry. The Doctor was still getting used to Nyssa’s recent experiments with Earth fashion. At least this time she had selected something that was more Zuhair Murad than Levi Strauss.

“The personification of goosebumps, perhaps?” she said. “I trust the coronation isn’t taking place in a snowbank.”

“Certainly not. If anything, the Celestenes incline towards the tropics, even when they choose to build on a mountaintop. Or a canyon.” A head taller than most of the natives, he could already see the tips of spires rising beyond the ridgeline. “Nearly there.”

He marched faster, eager to outpace his doubts. They were climbing the slope amidst a crowd of well-to-do burgesses from the outlying demes. He had postponed this visit for centuries, lacking companions who would tolerate or even understand the highly formalised setting of the Celestial Basilica. Only Romana could have risen to the occasion, but she had demurred. He shuddered to think what abuses of protocol Tegan might have committed before they ever came near the royal presence.

Nyssa had fallen behind. He turned to see her standing transfixed by the view. The late afternoon sun gilded her shoulders as it did the natural stone columns rearing up like palisades on both sides of the path. She stared ahead with lips parted, a small rapt figure rooted in an endless stream of fantastically-garbed aristocrats. Her first glimpse of the Basilica had impressed her just as he had hoped.

Someone stumbled against her. She murmured an apology and came back to herself, reaching for him as the advancing queue threatened to sweep them apart.

“Well, what do you think?” he said, drawing her hand through the crook of his elbow.

“Magnificent,” she said. “Well worth three unscheduled detours.”

He made an exasperated noise. “You aren’t going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No, Doctor,” she said gently. During their last accidental stop, she had resorted to pawning her first ballgown to ransom him. She had kept enough petticoats for modesty’s sake, but she had been rather fond of that frock.

“I’d have thought you’d learned to appreciate the scenic route by now,” he said.

“I’d hardly call the Miaxa’s horrible prison scenic,” she said. “But never mind. I’m just wondering if there was a reason you kept finding ways not to come here. Is there something wrong with the Basilica? Beyond the fact that these people haven’t grasped the concept of a floor?”

“No, no, it’s all perfectly sound.” He smiled, recognising in her the same trepidation he’d felt on his first visit. “If you must know, I wasn’t keen on the dress code.”

“Oh!” She chuckled. “I think it suits you. The eyemask makes you look almost dashing.”

“Almost?” he huffed. “Thank you for that ringing endorsement.” For once, he had traded his coat and cricket jumper for a cream-coloured cloak and doublet trimmed in gold. His buckled shoes and stockings dismayed him, but knee-breeches made them tolerable. Barely.

“Quite dashing, then,” she relented, tapping a finger where his lapel ought to be. “You’re just cross that I made you omit the celery.”

She slowed again as they reached the canyon rim. Here the pavement ended abruptly, yet the crowd surged ahead like lemmings. Nyssa paused, took a deep breath, and stepped onto shimmering air.

Beyond the cliff’s edge, the billowing fog veiled no terrestrial mass. Translucent terraces stretched between towering pylons like the branches of espaliered trees. At the center of the chasm, riding a pillow of cloud like a mirage, there floated a huge edifice whose interlocking lines formed the five Platonic solids superimposed. Flying buttresses of light vaulted between the levels, carrying passengers along at double walking speed. The only solid structures were the residential quarters clustered around the five tallest towers like hanging bunches of fruit, each the size of a castle keep. Apart from these, the temple of the High Hierophant of the Five Revealed Truths was truly a castle of the air.

Wisely, Nyssa kept her eyes fixed straight ahead until the avenue carried them into the outer galleries of the palace. Here its surfaces were defined by carpets of tinted mist held between suspension fields, veiling the abyss beneath their feet. Birds shot through the walls, which seemed programmed to permit objects of small size and high velocity to pass unimpeded. Above and below and all around, visitors strolled among raised beds bearing trees, flowering bushes, pools of fish and fences of reeds that served as privacy screens. As advertised, perfumed glitter sifted down from above.

The Doctor ducked as they passed through one of these showers. The diamond sand left no residue, but the scent made his nose itch. Perhaps he should have worn a hat, after all.

“Is it real?” Nyssa said. “Or a virtual space?” She gripped his arm tightly, the only sign that she felt not quite sanguine about trusting her life to insubstantial architecture.

“You mean, are we in a mental landscape? No, it’s physical or, to be more precise, spatial. The Celestenes have perfected the manipulation of gravitational fields with the same finesse as Gallifrey’s temporal engineering. Oddly, they’ve nearly given up space travel.”

“Why wander the void,” she mused, “when you can live in the sky?”

“Exactly. The Celestial Basilica is the pinnacle of their art and civilisation, enshrining their values of harmony and hierarchy.”

She sounded dazed. “It feels like a dream.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No, but it’s familiar somehow.” Her eyes widened. “The Source! It’s like Traken, isn’t it? Where’s it coming from?”

“I wondered if you could sense it. The lattice of the Basilica carries a psychic resonance. It’s not alive, exactly, not like a TARDIS, but it’s somewhat akin to Traken’s ‘sentient sun.’”

Her eyes glistened behind her mask. “It’s so warm, Doctor.” Refracted sunlight heated the Basilica like a greenhouse, but she was reacting to more than just ambient temperature. There was jubilation in the air, almost as palpable as the gravitational fields preventing a fatal drop. Personally, he found secondhand joy intrusive. A part of his mind was occupied with blocking it out.

“I wish Adric could see this,” she murmured.

Disconcerted, he glanced down at her, but her expression was tranquil. “Whatever for? I thought I’d mentioned that they fast until nightfall.”

“All this.” She gestured. “The equations needed to maintain so many stable forcefields must be staggering.”

“Indeed. Wait until you hear their music. You’ll find it a fascinating puzzle, I think.”

She raised her eyebrows. “In what way?”

He patted her hand. “You’ll see. Ah, here we are.”

They had reached an imposing gateway where porters armed with ceremonial swords were screening guests. The Doctor made a beeline for one whose red-lacquered armour was more elaborate than the rest. Half-masks were only to be seen in his queue, and the costumes were more elaborate. As they waited for their turn, the Doctor confirmed Nyssa’s guess: the lesser ranks wore fascinators or face paint concealing as much as etiquette allowed, while the higher echelons were afforded more anonymity. Their masks were the personifications of noble houses.

“My invitation,” the Doctor said, drawing out a jeweled pendant. “Good to see you again, Warder.”

With a puzzled frown, the doorkeeper waved a glass wand in front of them, then set its tip against the jewel. His eyebrows disappeared into his helm as a series of dots and squiggles lit up the clear tube. “Gracious. Lord Doctor, isn’t it? I hardly recognised you. But then, you are Gallifreyan. I suppose these things are to be expected. That is to say…” He adjusted his posture, toes turned out. “On behalf of his Holiness-Elect, we ratify your presence and unfurl the hospitality of the Basilica.” He inclined his head to Nyssa questioningly.

“Too kind, Adyton,” said the Doctor. “Ah. Please allow me to present my associate, Lady Nyssa.”

She drew one heel behind the other, rose to half-pointe and lifted her chin, every diminutive inch aligned in perfect poise from instep to tiara.

The Doctor suppressed a grin. Was it deliberate, or an innocent faux pas? The rank she had claimed was lofty enough to draw stares from several astonished guests. He hastened to append, “Daughter of Consul Tremas, Keeper-Elect of the Traken Union.”

“My lady.” The man bowed with deep courtesy. There was a guarded edge to his gaze: skepticism, perhaps, or wary appraisal. “The heights of heaven are accessible to your discerning eye.”

“You honour us,” she said easily.

“Speaking of accessibility,” the Doctor said, “I don’t suppose we might be issued a spare key? The invitation included only one, you know.”

“Lord Doctor!” Adyton said in a shocked whisper. “We know well that customs differ as much as do stars, yet there is a natural order here which brooks no ambiguity. Surely you must understand the key’s symbolism—”

“Your pardon,” Nyssa cut in, aware of the tide of impatient nobles piling up behind them. “If your customs differ, then of course we will abide by them.”

“Very good, milady. The delights of the Basilica await.” He beckoned with as much courtesy as he could muster while all but shooing them through the gate.

“What was all that about?” Nyssa whispered, once they were out of earshot.

“Quite extraordinary,” the Doctor said. Taking her hand, he stepped off the walkway onto a landing taken up by a large aquarium. Nyssa glanced curiously at the sinuous hoop-shaped creatures slowly revolving through the water. “What was I telling you about tropical environments? These eels, you see, only live in the sheltered pools of atolls. I saw them along the coast by the Healing Hives of Hygieia. The photosynthetic algae in their scales—”

Playing along, Nyssa followed him around the tank and into the shadow of a palm tree rising up through the floor from a lower level. He glanced both ways before offering her the necklace, careful to hold it by its chain. “Here. The key to our guest suite. It’s a rare honour to be housed in the Basilica itself. Is there somewhere out of sight you can keep this?” He peered out of the corners of his eyes while trying not to inspect her costume too closely.

Nyssa blushed at his expression. “I told you this outfit was too showy. What’s so special about the key? We can always return to the TARDIS after the ceremony.”

“Yes, well, it’s rather a long walk. Temperatures drop rapidly at night outside the environmental membranes. I seem to recall you aren’t keen on subzero temperatures.”

“Certainly not while wearing this.”

“As for the key…” He nodded as she took it. “Hold it for six seconds to lock it to your bioprint. It emits a homing signal for the transmat system, granting access to our quarters from anywhere in the Basilica. If mental commands don’t work, squeeze it with your thumb. Palm-to-palm skin contact with a guest initiates tandem transfer.” He looked apologetic. “Gender roles in this culture are quite strictly defined. Violating them is a religious as well as a social taboo. And I’m afraid the Celestenes have rather backward notions about males as keepers of the keys.”

“Oh, well.” She began to peel a white glove off, and paused. “That’s why you suggested I wear gloves.”

“Yes. All the fashionable ladies are wearing them.”

“It seems to me that all the _married_ ladies are wearing them,” she said, wrapping the chain around her wrist and laying the jewel flat against the back of her hand, then slipping the glove back over it to secure it.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, taking his arm as they returned to the moving walkway. “Convenient technology. I don’t suppose you could adapt the TARDIS key to the same design.”

“Wouldn’t work,” he said. “It’s only a transmitter. The transmat system is part of the Basilica.”

“Pity,” she said. “I wonder if there’s some way to adapt the TARDIS shell to—”

And then her words were stolen away. The pathway glided over a moon-bridge that unfurled onto the rim of a huge ballroom. The floor’s lake of coloured panes reminded the Doctor of the Rose Window of Notre Dame. In fact, it was a mandala, concentric rings of stylised petals slowly orbiting one of the Basilica’s solid suspension pylons. Above its peak floated a rayed canopy of water whose crisscrossing streams flashed in the sun. As for the music— could one call it chamber music, when the hall was open to the sky?

Nyssa looked up at him with vexed fondness. “But you hate lutes.”

“Yes, well,” he said, breaking into a resigned grin. “It does rather come with the territory. Happy birthday. Belated, I’m afraid, but at least we’re not too late for the coronation.”

“Another year already? For both of us.” There was a softness of memory in her voice.

He said nothing. He usually paid scant attention to linear time, but his long incarceration on Folly had forced him to count months and days. By his best estimate, it had been three years for Nyssa since her coming-of-age ceremony had been co-opted by her father’s disappearance and the need to midwife a Time Lord’s regeneration. None of his human companions had stayed so long. Perhaps, deep down, he had selfish reasons for taking her to inhospitable places so often.

But not today. Already he could see her chin moving unconsciously to the music, its interwoven lines of octals and dodecals very like Traken’s geometric symphonies. As the throng began to dissolve into pairs, calling towards those hanging back, she started towards an open part of the floor.

He planted, suddenly alarmed. “Ah, Nyssa, I did rather intend for you to make some new friends tonight.”

“Oh, nonsense. What are you going to do, stand in a corner all evening? This room hasn’t any corners, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“No, but there’s so much more to see. The upper terraces, for example—”

“Exploring glorified corridors? Is that really your idea of a good time?”

“Well…” He stopped himself from committing an unflattering faux pas just in time. “I suppose my last incarnation could never resist a good knees-up.”

“Perhaps not,” she said, taking his hand firmly, “but I wouldn’t have dreamed of dancing with _him_.”

* * *

In the Celestial Basilica, the concept of “floor” was extraordinary.

Nearly a thousand dancers twirled on a hundred faceted levels. Circling the central mandala were smaller gyres of petals turning like planets orbiting a star. Colored mists gave the petals a waxy sheen, but it was just as well that Nyssa wore tights. She and the Doctor were dancing high above the true floor.

“It didn’t occur to me that our visit to Chariklo was a test run,” she said, hopping lightly to the next gyre as the one where they were riding switched direction.

“Please, don’t remind me.” The image of Nyssa drifting away from him in a microgravity accident still haunted his dreams. Counting beats, he lifted her as one of the higher petals floated past. She caught it and spun suspended on what seemed to be no more than a standing wave in the glittering rain. The layers of her gown followed in slow motion. Smiling, she rested a finger on his upraised hand, drifting down. He misjudged the moment when she reentered his gravity field and had to lunge to catch her when she dropped the last two feet. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

She bounced once, twice, laughing as the floor rebounded. “Come on, Doctor, if you can work out the TARDIS coordinates in your head to five dimensions, four should present no difficulty.”

“Hand her down here, milord! We’ll take care of her!” crowed one of the dancers directly below them. The laughter was kind. Now and again someone would reach up or out or down to steady a neighbor tripped up by the changing floors.

“I do not _dance_ the coordinates while setting them,” he said with dignity.

“Oh, yes, you do,” she teased. “I’m never sure whether those flourishes are for my benefit or the TARDIS.”

“Neither,” he lied.

He had not exaggerated the complexities of Celestene music. Not content with weaving two melodies with two different time signatures, the musicians switched from even to odd rhythms whenever the mandalas reversed direction. The Doctor’s gavotte was barely up to the task. Nyssa, however, was reveling in the challenge. He watched in admiration as she pivoted to face him, maintaining the same footwork while gliding backwards, trusting him to lift her whenever one of the moving platforms threatened to collide with her calves.

“What is it?” she said. “You look like I’ve sprouted fungi.”

“No, but I thought you were a scientist, not _La Sylphide_ ,” he said. “Remind me to introduce you to Marie Taglioni someday.”

“The human who discovered radiation poisoning?”

“No, that was Curie.”

“Ah. Well, then, I suppose I should be flattered.” She smiled as he executed a smart fencer’s leap to catch up to her. “But dance _is_ science, Doctor, the study of body and balance. I learned that on Traken, where science was not divorced from spirit nor life nor art.”

“I’m sure the Celestenes would agree with you.”

The tempo ratcheted up to a lively _darbuka_ rhythm. Nyssa reached for his hands, inviting him to circle in place with her instead of stepping from one passing petal to the next. Responding to their movements, their petal began to turn in the opposite direction, just quickly enough that the world seemed to orbit them in slow motion.

It was one of those moments of grace in a long life when time held its breath. The sinking sun basked on a mountaintop. Just overhead, streams of water glittered like flaming glass beads. Nyssa’s pale skin blushed pink in the sunset. Looking past her, he could see the burning lines of the basilica’s lattice crossing and recrossing like a three-dimensional kaleidoscope as his viewing angle changed. The tingling euphoria of a thousand minds washed over him, until he found himself grinning foolishly down at her. Nyssa’s smile was more Mona Lisa, focused as she was on the music’s complexities, but he thought he had never seen her so serene.

“Let me show you something,” he said impulsively.

His words seemed to bring her out of a trance, and she dimpled up at him. “Be my guest.”

“There’s not much room, but…” He slipped an arm behind her back, still clasping her other hand, and began to sway to a lively human step. “How’s that? Forget the mathematics and just dance.” He gave her a twirl. “You can do that, can’t you?”

“But there’s no pattern,” she said, faltering until she began to read his shoulders. “Earth?”

“Foxtrot,” he puffed.

Faster and faster whirled the notes and the floor, forcing them together to keep from flying apart. Dancers all around them were giving up the game and staggering down to ground level, laughing and applauding the musicians. Nyssa’s waist slipped through his fingers as she tried another pirouette.

“That’s it,” he said. “And up… you go!” Gravity was playing tricks again. She twirled in mid-air at a slant, face alight with her arms out and her hair floating above her shoulders. Mesmerised, he nearly forgot to keep moving. Then she drew her arms in, accelerating the spin. A full leg extension was not possible in that dress, but she arched into an ice skater’s backbend.

“Careful,” he warned. “I think our masochistic musicians may be coming to some kind of consensus.”

“Just catch me,” she said. “It’s less than point one Gs up here.”

“I don’t think—”

There was no time for thought. The different rhythms resolved with a triumphant fanfare, the gravity fields reversed direction to check their momentum, and Nyssa dropped. He caught her around the middle, nearly spilling her onto his buckled shoes. She sagged against him in a rare fit of giggles. The Doctor straightened and waited for her to compose herself while the floor petals descended like the steps of melting ziggurats. To scattered applause, the remaining dancers drifted towards the ballroom’s stable perimeter. Sedate chamber music resumed.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself up there,” he observed, releasing her when they reached the ground.

“Utterly,” she said, a little wobbly. “I presume you did, too?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” His attention had fixed on two figures in the crowd. “Ah,” he muttered.

Following his distracted gaze with mild exasperation, she blanched. “Who is that?”

Across the tapestry of courtiers, Adyton’s lacquered armor flamed scarlet in the sunset. He stood with head bowed to someone the Doctor had not observed until now, a slight figure in doublet and hose of alternating black and gold lozenges. Compared to the elaborate costumes of the other courtiers, this person was conspicuously unadorned. The featureless mask, a pale white oval with slits for eyes, covered the wearer’s face save for lower lip and bearded chin. It was a Harlequin, but the Doctor suspected that was not the only reason for Nyssa’s alarm. The neat black goatee over a jeweled collar of stiff black velvet had to have given her a turn.

“It’s not him,” the Doctor reassured her.

“I know,” she said, alarm giving way to puzzlement as the Warder and Harlequin parted with a handclasp. “He’s too slender, for a start.”

“And too young.” The Doctor refrained from pointing out that most of the natives were shorter than Time Lords.

“Do you know him?” she said. “Oh, never mind. I think they’re starting again.”

“Nyssa…” He saw her hopeful expression and relented. “Well, all right. One more.”

They took their places facing each other in a double line of dancers. This time, the floor remained fixed. Petals lit up to help guide guests through the figures. As the musicians struck up a more comprehensible jig, the Harlequin slid neatly into a space on the Doctor’s right, raising a hand as they circled with palms facing one another.

“The Dauphin,” said the stranger in a smooth tenor, “bade me convey his gratitude to the Lord Doctor and the Lady Josephine for the great service they rendered him at the Healing Hives of Hygieia. Since that time, truly, he has been a changed man.”

“Well, you can tell him it was no trouble at all,” the Doctor said, wry. “But I’m afraid Jo’s not here.”

“The Dauphin also bade me extend his felicitations to the Lady Nyssa of Traken. Her presence is a flowering star to bless our sky. We trust you have been enjoying the festivities?”

“Very much indeed, thank you,” she said, dropping a grave courtesy to him as they returned to their places.

“That is well,” he said. “If you will excuse me, my lord, my lady…” So saying, he spun out of the set, letting another straggler flow into his position.

“Is that who I think it was?” Nyssa whispered when the Doctor joined her for a promenade down the middle of the set.

“That _boy,”_ the Doctor said, lowering his voice. “Yes, that was the Dauphin. Looking rather more hale than two years ago.”

“What service was he thanking you for?”

“Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that.”

They parted and raised their arms to form a split arch for the next couple to dance under. Nyssa resumed their conversation during their next promenade. “You saved his life, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps. Spot of bother with an exiled brother. Not really my cup of tea, meddling in dynastic politics. It’s so tediously predictable.”

“But someone asked you very nicely?”

“His mother. You’d like her. A healer, the High Priestess of Hygieia. Just as well, really: Achille was a sickly boy.” He vaguely recalled a fine-featured youth lying wan against a nest of pillows, his torso swathed in bandages from a heart procedure. The abduction had not been intended as a murder, but it could easily have become one. Jo had doted on the boy all the way back from the airship where they had rescued him.

“What happened to Jo?” Nyssa said on the third pass.

“She got married.”

“Oh!” She sighed. “Doctor, do you always insist that your companions choose between love and travel?”

“It’s hardly up to me,” he retorted.

Thankfully, she did not press the matter. The rest of the jig went smoothly, apart from an entertaining mix-up with Nyssa dancing on the men’s side for a few measures. He steered her back to the correct side and passed it off as a foreigner’s mistake before they could be tossed out for sacrilege. He might have changed his mind about a third dance, but before he could offer, the musicians had struck up another geometric symphony. Nyssa laughed at his pained expression but let him be. The Doctor had already braved lutes for her sake, after all.

Courtiers began to collect around her like bees as soon as he moved away. That, too, had been part of his reason for bringing her here. She had so few opportunities to mingle with young people her own age. Or of her own pedigree, although that was a mixed blessing. At least these nobles were a cut above the un-housebroken pups like Brewster and Andrew that she tended to adopt.

He nodded an absent-minded thanks when Adyton appeared beside him and pressed a fluted glass into his hand. Sipping a dry sparkling wine, he moved to the perimeter to watch. From this vantage point, he could see how the changing relationships of the dancers expressed the music’s underlying harmonies in four dimensions. Almost lost against the ceiling were two figures, light and dark, yin and yang, well-matched in skill if not in style.

He did not observe the Warder at his elbow, gazing up at the distant pair with a sour expression that echoed his own.

* * *

Romana had been right, as always. The Doctor could withstand pageantry for only so long. Tradition was all very well, but did they have to reenact the last Hierophant’s death over soup and salad? Couldn’t they take a hint from the Giruleans, who anointed their chief simply by waving a twig over his head? The Doctor began to daydream about the dignified rituals of cricket. He supposed it would be interfering with history too much to establish a coronation ceremony that consisted of six overs.

“That would be boring,” Nyssa said. “Now hush. I’m trying to follow this.”

Like so much else in the Basilica, language could be complex. Lattice-speech had fallen out of everyday usage but persisted in archaic formulas. The TARDIS could not translate more than the surface layer of speech, but Nyssa had found a way to follow one of the threads, counting beats to guess where the key words in the original text might fall. 

 _No_ errant _king_ is he who _rules:_ above all _save_ God, in _time_ enthroned, _which_ blesses him and _wears_ away men’s lies. Let _all_ give prayers _to_ him. The _dust_ of heaven _…_ ”

The Doctor had filled her in concerning the main actors of this pantomime, high nobles ritually reenacting the last king’s death upon a dais along one side of the hall. Presiding over the ceremony was the Dowager Queen, Rhea, a formidable matron garbed in enough layers of silk and chiffon to block a sword-thrust. She had exchanged her healer’s stafffor a spear to stand in as the goddess Minerva, stern and remote in a grey-feathered mask. Acheron, Lord Regent and brother-in-law to the late Hierophant, was droning out a praise-poem as if he meant to prolong his regency for another twelve years.

The role of the High Hierophant was a delicate problem, since he like the Five Revealed Truths was deemed to be eternal. Technically, his heir did not even exist during the hours of chaos between his death and rebirth. The interregnum usually lasted only a few days, but this one had spanned twelve years, waiting for the Dauphin to reach the age of majority. Only now could the old king’s death be acknowledged. But how? Who but the King could speak as the King? Ancient texts supplied an unlikely solution.

Accordingly, the central member of this little tableau was the High Hierophant himself, played by a boy who had been eight the last time he saw his father alive. Voluminous golden robes all but engulfed him. He lay propped on a bier in the likeness of an aged Saturn with a sword across his lap. His scant black goatee was hidden beneath a silver beard. A voice modulator in his mask assisted in the illusion. To judge by the reverent murmurs of his subjects, it seemed that his mimicry of the old king’s phrasing was uncannily authentic.

Turning to Nyssa to point out Achille’s impressive (and ridiculous) disguise, a glint drew the Doctor’s attention to the next table. Someone was stealthily drawing a grey tube from the frilled cuff of his sleeve. Romana would have recognised it at once. K9 had been equipped with an older model of the same weapon.

The old Hierophant’s ghost seemed to fill the hall. “Brother mine, _I_ name you Regent, _leave_ in your care _my_ realm. Saturn’s _sword_ I entrust _to_ thee, twin to _my_ queen. Protect my _son_ …”

The Doctor saw the stranger’s hand rise as if pointing out some detail of the ceremony to a friend. The gun was aimed towards the litter.

He determined this fact in mid-air, vaulting past Nyssa to block the beam. There was a jarring whine at the edge of hearing. Pain blossomed out from a point just above his left heart. Numbness followed. Fighting for consciousness, he struck out and down, bashing the man’s wrist. The dislodged weapon fell between his knees as he crumpled. Heads turned towards the disturbance, but most were staring at him and not the man scrambling away with his arms flung over his face as if fending off an attack. The Doctor laughed weakly at the ruse.

Nyssa’s voice sang from a great distance. He looked up to find she was hovering over him, luminous grey eyes wide with worry. He hastened to assure her that all was well, but his thoughts were taking a long time to shape themselves into words.

“Alas! Alas! Saturn’s reign ends!” Rhea dragged out the words until they were shorn of sense. “Now begins the Rite of Dionysos!”

Through a fog, he saw Nyssa peel off her glove. He wondered if she intended to slap his attacker’s cheek and demand satisfaction. It did not seem in character for her to duel on his behalf.

Then again…

He felt a dim sense of disquiet as she stalked the assassin in slow motion. She stretched out her fingers, caught the man’s hand as he flung a chair aside. Their palms pressed together. They vanished. The world went white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read my "Bird Has Flown" fanfic, this story happens _before_ the final scene of that one. The Doctor and Nyssa's friendship in this tale is strictly Platonic. Okay, 95% Platonic. But at any rate, they haven't, er... slipped into any other configuration than what Big Finish has presented us with to date.
> 
> Chapter Title: _Le Roi Danse_ , "The king dances," name of a French film dramatising the origins of French baroque ballet in the court of young Louis XIV. I drew heavily on the style of that film for this story.


	2. Le Ballet de la Nuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelry followed by embarrassment ensues when the telepathic gestalt of the Basilica combined with a party atmosphere make the Doctor and Nyssa a bit... drunk?

_“Those people are gravely mistaken who imagine that all this is mere ceremony.”_ —Louis XIV, _Le Roi-Soleil_

 

The horrifying image of the Doctor’s shoulder bones silhouetted by an energy discharge was seared into Nyssa’s mind as a strange room materialised around her. She dropped and twisted to plant her hip as the stranger lunged for her. Tegan had taught her how to exploit a low centre of gravity, a half-remembered lesson from a college self-defense course. Surprise was on Nyssa’s side. The man went sprawling headfirst into the footboard of an elaborate and quite solid wooden bed. Nyssa kicked the bedskirts over him and fled to the open archway at the far end of the room.

She realised her error too late. It led onto a balcony with nowhere to go but down. Turning back, she saw the assassin tapping a jeweled brooch pinned to his cravat. Nothing happened. Grinning sourly beneath a hawk’s mask, he followed her out and advanced on her. She retreated to the far end of the balcony, stalling for seconds.

“I need a hostage,” he drawled, “but I don’t need a conscious one. Your choice.”

His hand shot out to seize her under the chin when she tried to duck around him. Nyssa froze. The heel of his hand was pressing against her windpipe. For the record, this had not been a good plan.

“What do you intend?” she said, haughtiness masking fear. Her thoughts fled back to the Doctor. She needed him, and he probably needed her. She should have tended him, not spirited the would-be assassin away before he could make a second attempt. And what if the Celestenes thought the dropped weapon belonged to the Doctor?

“That depends,” he said. “It seems our sham princeling gave you the key to a private suite. A criminal waste, quite frankly. Shall we sample the amenities while we await room service?”

“I’ll stay out here, if it’s all the same,” she said through gritted teeth.

The hum of a transmat beam was a welcome reprieve.

“Out here, gentlemen,” her captor called. “Lay down your weapons, or the lady will find herself on the wrong side of true gravity.”

There was a slide and a clatter of swords being drawn and dropped. Two guards emerged slowly onto the balcony. Their whiskered, uncovered faces seemed raw and uncouth after a night of masks.

“Ah, ah,” the assassin said. “No closer, if you please.”

Nyssa bit back a cry as he jerked her chin up to demonstrate his intentions. The younger guard snarled. His partner had to hold him back. But fear could not dampen Nyssa’s relief at seeing the Doctor, ashen-faced but on his feet, lurking in the room’s shadows. Adyton was at his side, evidently supporting him.

She returned the Doctor’s concerned gaze with an exasperated look that told him all he needed to know. He stumbled forward and slumped against the wall when the Warder left him. Nyssa’s spirits faltered until she saw him prop himself up with one hand and reach for something just inside the doorway— a control panel, perhaps? She cleared her throat to cover the faint sound of clicks and beeps.

The Warder stepped out onto the balcony, hand on sword-hilt. “Come away from the edge, Sirrah.”

“Adyton. You took your time. Promotion going to your head? Be a stout fellow and get me out of here.”

“You will unhand the Lady Nyssa and surrender yourself.”

“I will, will I?” The assassin grinned. “Inform the sacred guardians of the Heavenly Gates that they can bloody well remove the lockdown codes on my key. Twenty seconds.”

“Impossible. Your only choice now is gaol or gibbet.”

“Don’t be a bigger fool than they take you for, old comrade.”

The faint beeps and clicks continued. What was the Doctor up to? With the assassin forcing her head up, Nyssa could not see much besides the last glimmer of sunset and a few bright stars. She did not need to see behind her to know there was nothing back there besides a two kilometre drop. _Oh_.

“Ten seconds,” the man said. “I’m not bluffing. Either she dies or comes with me.”

The furtive activity behind the archway had ceased. The Doctor wrapped his fingers around the edge of the doorframe and hung there, staring out at her in mute frustration. 

Nyssa caught his eye as best she could. “I’d sooner leap into the canyon,” she snapped.

The Doctor’s unhappy nod was not entirely reassuring. She knew that look. It meant a plan that he could not test and a risk he did not want to take.

“Four. Three. Two…”

It was a long way down. Surely there were failsafes. And besides—

“Wait,” Adyton said. “We’ll—”

She threw her weight backwards. Caught offguard, the assassin lost his choke-hold and made a grab for her arms. There was a moment’s struggle, and then they were both tumbling over the balustrade. The Doctor’s anguished _Nyssa!_ sent her heart into her throat. Had she misjudged what he had been trying to do? Then the brutal hands released her. Flailing at empty air, her opponent gave a guttural cry and began to fall faster than she in defiance of Newtonian physics. As soon as she was freed of his weight, she came to a hovering stop. He plummeted into darkness. She thought she saw a flash far below, but it might have been mere mist.

“Nyssa!” the Doctor called again, hoarse and strained.

“I’m here!” There was a loud thump above her. She looked up. Adyton had rushed to the balustrade and was leaning over it, joined by the two guards but not the Doctor. They were more than two metres overhead.

She lay, limp and heart hammering, on a gauzy cushion that she could not see. She realised with a chill exactly what had triggered that panicked cry. The Doctor had set the field to hold her weight, but nothing heavier. If the assassin had not let go, he would have pulled her down with him.

“Doctor?”

“He’s unwell, milady. Can you stand?” All three of them were reaching for her.

“He’s been shot,” she said, anxiety returning. “Please, he needs medical attention.”

“Presently.” Adyton was sweating, threatening to overbalance as he strained towards her. His comrades hastened to grip the straps of his armour. “Please, milady. You must reach. Quickly now!”

She felt herself sinking as the field began to collapse. “No need,” she said, trying to remain calm. “Let me concentrate.”

 _Home._ It had been a simple enough mental command, and it had worked a few minutes ago. Sure enough, there was a welcome shimmer, and she found herself standing beside the bed in a luxurious room whose fine furniture, curving mirrors and bowls of floating plants held no interest for her at all. Dim lights came up at her silent wish. She darted over to where the Doctor lay on his side, glassy eyes fixed on the Warder and soldiers still leaning over the balcony. Nyssa crouched beside him as best she could in a dress not made for it. His pulse was weak, but reassuringly doubled. There had been a few awful seconds in the feast-hall when she had felt a single beat.

“Doctor?”

He barely stirred, his smile bleary. “There you are. Quick thinking,” he mumbled, exactly as if she had been the one to devise the safety net instead of merely guessing what he was up to.

“Shh.” She fumbled to unclasp his cloak. “Let your body start the repairs.” Underneath, the side of his neck was red, faintly blistered. That was only the fringe of the blast. The damage to his shoulder must be worse beneath his doublet.

“Are you all right?” he persisted.

“Just a bit shaken. It’s never a quiet trip with you, is it?” She felt him go limp even before she had finished speaking. He must have been using every ounce of will to stave off the healing coma. She looked up imploringly as Adyton clanked back into the room. “Please—”

“At once, milady,” he said, turning back and blocking the doorway to bark orders. “Summon physickers to tend the Lord Doctor. Resume patrols. Ensure your senses remain unclouded.”

“Sir!” A double shimmer marked the other guards’ departure.

Adyton waited for them to go, then, tightlipped, dropped her discarded glove by her knee.

* * *

The healers had come and gone with Nyssa’s thanks. She could monitor the Doctor’s stabiliser patches on her own, watching the reassuring blue indicator lights that meant cell repair was well under way. There was nothing to do now but wait. In the meantime, she explored their suite of rooms, grateful for a truly solid floor. Wood and stone, clay tiles and brass, lamps made of shells whose flicker approximated candlelight, oval mirrors placed to reflect pleasing tableaus, fresh-cut flowers spilling from inset troughs along curving walls, no corners anywhere: it was a restful, organic aesthetic.

Less restful was the Doctor’s jury-rigging to craft the forcefield that had saved her. He had extended the environmental covering the doorway. Normally, that field held in only air. It was an unnerving thought to realise he had caught her with little more than a soap bubble. His reckless genius was embedded in the jumbled bits of code she had to unpick from the computer systems to keep the room’s heat from escaping.

Now and again she circled back to the bed. The Doctor was so still, so quiet: two things that seemed more alien on him than the strange human garb he preferred. She wished she could brush back the hair falling over his eyes, sit close enough that his telepathic awareness might pick up her feeble psychic presence. But he was a Time Lord, and the healing coma worked best if he was undisturbed. After pulling the sheet up to the medical patches on his chest to protect his dignity, she let him be.

She soon finished the repairs, sealing the draft so that she could stand in front of the open door without shivering. Outside, the clouds were piling ever higher, furling glowing terraces and spires in fantasies of cotton wool lit from within. The slowly-changing view was hypnotic. Yet she found she could not keep still. Despite their distance from the central edifice of the Basilica, spirited music reached her in snatches on the wind. Or was it the psychic lattice buzzing like harpstrings to the tune of a thousand hearts? Finally, bowing to the music’s siren call, she began to dance silently around the room. Trakenite court dance proved too staid for the heady exuberance filling the air. Feeling a little foolish, she launched into an impromptu Charleston.

“You ought to go back. They’ll be at it till dawn, you know.”

“Doctor!” She spun around at the haggard voice. “I’m sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“Not a bit. I feel quite…” He shifted under the sheet, flexing his left arm. He could not hide his grimace. “Well, alive, anyway. You look well.”

She poured a cup of tea from a sideboard and hurried over. “It’s a lovely night,” she said, “and I was enjoying the quiet.”

“So I saw.” He sat up gingerly to take the cup in both hands. “I hate to dampen the festive mood, but did you happen to catch the name of the gunman? That was unexpectedly foolish of you, by the way. I wish you’d leave that kind of thing to the local constabulary.”

“I wish _you_ would,” she said, settling on the chair she’d drawn up beside him. “And I haven’t a clue. I gather that Adyton knew him, but I… I didn’t inquire.” The Doctor’s injuries had been rather more pressing.

“Did he, now?” He took a thoughtful sip and pulled a face at the taste. “I thought I recognised the voice. At a guess, I’d say we’ve had a run-in with Auguste.”

“The exiled brother?”

“Full marks. Although, despite his disgrace, I’m not quite sure. He didn’t seem a killer when I met him before. He’d only abducted his little brother in an ill-judged attempt to clear his name.”

Nyssa’s face darkened. “He had no compunctions about killing tonight, Doctor.”

“True.” He sobered. “Well, perhaps our attacker was an independent agent. I hope so. Rhea’s already lost three sons.”

“‘Lost’? Is that a euphemism?” Nyssa looked distressed. “Can’t we ever go anywhere civilised, Doctor?”

“It was just as shocking to the Celestenes, I assure you. The first two died in a terrible accident— a midair collision, I believe. And as far as local customs are concerned, murder is as rare here as on Traken. That weapon wasn’t even manufactured on this planet. Focused-beam discharge is too dangerous, with all the gravity projectors holding up the floor.” His eyes narrowed. “I wonder.”

“Wasn’t Auguste banished off-world?” Nyssa broke off and glanced at the medical patch over his left heart. Some of the lights were still yellow. “No, it doesn’t matter now. You should be resting.”

He set the teacup on the nightstand and drew up the sheet in a show of modesty, concealing the medical readouts from her. “He was indeed. But there was some question whether Auguste was truly responsible for the third brother’s poisoning. He was only fifteen at the time. His father refused to believe it, although he had to capitulate to a council that would not crown a suspected murderer. Even so, he balked at naming a new heir, right up until his deathbed.”

“Which they were meticulously careful to reenact tonight, to put Achille’s claim beyond doubt,” Nyssa noted.

“So they did.” The Doctor frowned. “I met Auguste eight years after his father’s death. He’d spirited Achille away while he was weak, recovering from heart surgery. Auguste hoped to bully the boy into disavowing his own legitimacy.”

“In that case,” Nyssa said, “I’m afraid tonight’s intruder really was Auguste. He called the Dauphin a ‘sham princeling.’”

“I see.” The Doctor started to roll his shoulders in a shrug, winced, and fell back against the pillow with a sigh. “Well, there’s no point in worrying about it,” he told the ceiling. “The coronation will take place at dawn, and that will be that. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. It’s all a petty game of genealogy. Clever chaps, the Celestenes, cordoning off their upper class in the sky where they can’t cause too much mischief.”

“Is that why you risked your life for the sake of their succession, _Lord_ Doctor?”

“Nyssa.” He gave her a troubled look. “You were as appalled as I was at the prospect of that young man being murdered. Besides, I couldn’t very well let someone spoil such a magnificent party, now could I? It’s not cricket.”

“Snob,” she said, eyes gentle. “Were Tegan here, she’d tease us both for keeping to the clouds _._ But speaking of murder, I do wish you’d get some sleep. That shot would’ve been fatal for anyone but a Time Lord.”

“All right.” His meek acquiescence was a more telling indicator than the medical sensors. “On one condition. Return to the ballroom.”

“Doctor!” she said. “How can I go dancing when you’ve nearly gotten yourself killed?”

“You were doing a fine job of it earlier,” he said, smile fleeting but genuine. “And it’s easier for me to rest if I’m not distracted. Go on. Enjoy yourself. A chance like this happens only a few times a millennium.”

“If you’re sure.” She tilted her head. “Promise you’ll send for me if you need me?”

“All right. If you insist.” He rolled onto his side with a grunt and closed his eyes. “Go on.”

It was one promise he would break.

* * *

Dancing with the Dauphin was an altogether different experience, and not only because the musicians had abandoned formal mathematics for playful improvisation, discarding lutes for drums. Achille was lithe, quicksilver, sheathed once more in his acrobat’s guise. Nobody was fooled now. Yet courtiers still kept up the pretense, wondering aloud who had invited a Fool to the king’s ball. Nyssa laughed with them, sometimes whirling from arm to arm, but always back into the Harlequin’s hands as he guided her around the room like two leaves chasing one another in a zephyr. He named them in passing, winked as some saluted her who could not acknowledge him tonight.

“The Five Revealed Truths?” she pressed, breathless, for conversation was difficult on the move.

“You think too much, my lady!” he said, approval in his teasing.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “This isn’t what I expected of a theocracy.”

“Religion encompasses life,” he said. “Now, attend…”

He set his hands upon her waist and held her eyes, turning with her so that the ballroom cycled around them. They were on eye level, an intimacy she had seldom encountered. “Change,” he chanted, grinning to take the edge off ceremonial words. “Growth. Complexity. Entropy.” Again the mercurial smile. “And, relevant to present circumstance, Attraction.”

Nyssa blushed. “Fundamental qualities of matter and life.”

“You apprehend.”

Dancing among nobles her own age in a chamber that had become a vast hollow in the clouds, it was difficult to remember the terror of the assassination attempt just a few hours before. Only the redoubled guards around the hall’s perimeter stood as evidence of recent threat. The older generations had retired as the hour grew late. The music was free, wild, a skirl of pipes and a playful anarchy of noise, so alive it seemed like some great cat chasing them around the spacious hall. The Charleston was much too tame for the carnivale atmosphere. Achille demonstrated a vaulting turn and spread his hands wide.

“I can’t do that!” she laughed.

“On the contrary,” he said, curling his arm behind her back and drawing her into a leaping spin. “You do it divinely.” He grinned as they landed each on one foot, ankles twinned. Some of the dancers clapped around them. “Like so. Just look at Émile. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and his lady looks as if she might challenge you to a duel. If, that is, well-bred ladies could countenance such an act.”

Nyssa’s cheeks were pink beneath her mask. “I’m afraid many well-bred ladies are hoping for their own invitation from a mysterious Harlequin. I don’t wish to monopolise the host.”

“I fancy you may be right.” He grinned at a woman gazing over her shoulder at them while two gentlemen, linked arm in arm with her, stole kisses from both sides of her neck. “But I feel safer with you, seeing that my Adyton cannot protect me on the dance floor. You are safe with me, too, by the way.”

“Safe? How do you mean?”

“This is the Rite of Dionysos. Did the Lord Doctor not tell you what that entailed?”

“No. That’s an Earth name, isn’t it?”

“According to legend, but you would know better than I. Until I met the Lady Josephine, I thought our ancestral home a myth.”

“But you’re human?”

“The word I hear is what we call ourselves, but who knows what term your ship’s lattice approximates?” He gave a rueful laugh. “Human or post-human, we are a long-lived people. Did we not ration our irrationality, our numbers would grow immoderate.”

“And Dionysos is a symbol of…?” she said, distracted. His mention of the Doctor had turned her thoughts aside. As much as she was enjoying herself, she felt the urge to check on him.

“Not thinking.” Gently but firmly, Achille gathered her close and set his lips by her ear as they circled. “I shall have private quarters secured for you in the royal apartments. None can enter there save by my key.” His right hand traced the back of her wrist, rolling up her glove to slip two fingers over the jewel hidden there. She felt a sudden warmth in the stone. “And now by yours, dear lady.”

She shivered and pulled away. The spell was suddenly broken, and she was too aware of the featureless mask hiding most of his face. “I’m honoured, my lord, but I must decline.”

“You wish to be with the Lord Doctor,” he said, smiling and releasing her. “It is always best to go where the heart inclines. Go to him, then, but do not tarry. The hour is late. Happily, I think I espy him on the terrace above.”

Flustered, she sketched a cursory courtesy and fled. In her haste, she did not see the Warder push his way through the heedless crowd, clap a hand on the Dauphin’s shoulder and lead him away.

* * *

Roused by the same psychic impulses that had set Nyssa dancing about their quarters, the Doctor had lost himself walking in the fog. He had strayed far along aerial walkways and deserted avenues, resting his mind on harmonies of line and structure. It was cold, bitterly so, even with environmental fields to deflect the cloud-drenched winds. Only a few unmasked servants passed him on foot. The higher orders must be using transmat to move about after dark.

At last he came to a tall archway in a wall that rose and vanished in the mist. Plunging through, he was buffeted by warm air and a glissando of music that was blessedly free of lutes. His spirits lifted. He strode forward along a luminous corridor that opened out into a mezzanine overlooking the ballroom. It was vaulted by the moon-bridge arcing down to the lower level. He moved to the railing, gazing down across the hall still pulsing with life despite the late hour.

Nyssa was there. He was not entirely surprised to see the Dauphin with her, but their intimate embrace hit his sternum like a ball striking a cracked bat. Evidently she had taken to heart his injunction to enjoy herself. Scowling, he noticed Achille’s fingers wandering over the back of her hand where lay the hidden key. The Doctor needed it to avoid a long, lonely walk back to their suite.

Averting his eyes before he saw anything else to spoil the evening, the Doctor began to scan the ballroom’s perimeter for an ally to spare him an awkward conversation. Surely Adyton would be willing to give him a lift back once he saw how things stood, and with whom. But there were a great many more guards now than earlier, and none of them possessed the Warder’s basset hound face and lamp-post build. At last, just as the Doctor was resigning himself to hiking back on foot, he spotted the man shepherding Achille out of the hall. What was that about? And where had Nyssa got to?

He was answered by a familiar patter of running footsteps. Nyssa was flying up the moon bridge towards him, face alight.

“There you are! How are you feeling?”

“Light-headed,” he admitted with a quick, bleary smile. “Giddy, in fact, although I’m not sure if it’s me or this place.”

“Probably a little of both,” she said, taking his hands. “After-effects of accelerated healing. Do you want to go?”

“Go? Back to the TARDIS?” he said. “And miss the coronation, after all the trouble it’s taken us to get here? Nyssa, I’m surprised at you!”

“I meant back to our rooms.” She gave his hands a shake. “Seeing as you haven’t fully recovered. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“There’s no need to exaggerate,” he said, suddenly reinvigorated. “Just a touch of vertigo, hardly surprising in a place like this. I’ve had an excellent rest, and I thought I’d stretch my legs and see how you were getting on. It’s well past midnight, by the way.”

“I’m not tired,” she said. “There’s something about this place, as you say.”

Something indeed. Weary as he was, the thrumming in the air crept under the skin. Pride would not suffer him to quit the field before she did. Instead, he tucked an arm behind his cloak, bent in a half-bow and offered her his hand. “That being the case,” he said, suddenly feeling a good deal more relaxed, “May I have this dance, Lady Nyssa?”

She gave him a searching look, then softened and dropped a correct curtsy, matching his tone. “Certainly, my lord.” Eyes twinkling, she set her fingers on his wrist with the level of decorum he generally expected of her. That, too, was a relief. She was old enough to know her own mind, but there were some things he hated for her to learn the hard way. He would have to warn her later about the casual dalliances of kings.

They strolled down to the main level, returning to the dance floor whose panes had become dim footlights, coral-red and purple and green that changed from one measure to the next. Nobody seemed to be worrying about formalities or footwork now. Steps were free, breezy, even wanton. The musicians had shifted tempo yet again, abandoning exuberance for a dreaming yet insistent heartbeat that encouraged the thinning ranks of revelers to linger in one another’s arms.

The Doctor slipped a hand behind Nyssa’s back. Woozy he might be, but there was one dance he could perform expertly in his sleep. From the third step, he knew he’d been right to save it until now. Nyssa never faltered, keeping her eyes fixed on his face as he led them in effortless arcs around the room.

Colourful costumes and nodding masks wheeled by. The music flowed over them with the same pulse as the TARDIS time rotor. Glittering dust-motes drifted down, settling on Nyssa’s hair like stars before melting away. He felt as if they were spinning through the vortex in their own transcendental bubble.

Nyssa released a contented sigh. “There. So much better with a friend. What’s this one called?”

“The waltz,” he murmured, elation washing over him. “It was once banned in Vienna.”

“Why?”

“They considered it…scandalous,” he said.“There were questions of propriety.”

“I’m surprised you know it, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know. For special occasions, and so forth.”

Her back was warm under his hand. The floor had stopped moving, yet he could not escape the impression that they were rising towards the ceiling. Masks and feathers and jewels glittered around them, cloaks fluttering, taffeta rustling, bodies entwining. All the orderly strictures of geometry had collapsed, until dancers jostled one another with merriment and casual flirtation. Some couples were kissing, masks pushed askew. Normally he would object to such public displays, but just now, with the buzz of sensation flowing through the air like positive ions after a storm, it was as natural as breathing.

“Oh?” she said. “Those would be the ‘knees up’ that your last incarnation liked to indulge in, yes?”

Paris. That was it. He had not felt this way since Paris. He wanted to hold onto this budding sense of euphoria. But the people around them were growing intrusive. They kept laughing too loudly, bumping into his back, touching _her_.

One of the faceless women patted Nyssa’s arm in passing. “Scaling the hierarchy from Fool to Time Lord in a few hours? You must tell us your secret!”

“I found another fool,” Nyssa said brightly.

“Nyssa,” he said, aggrieved.

“A wise fool,” she said, reaching up to stroke the tip of his nose.

His face tingled at the fleeting contact. He had a sudden mad impulse to kiss her finger before she resettled her hand on his shoulder. Again, the waltz carried them through the press of merrymakers like a periodic comet. At the apogee he released her. She raised her hand, fingertips tickling his palm as she spun. The waltz was an ironic fulcrum: a dance from Earth, where they always had to conceal their true natures, yet here among the masks of the Celestial Basilica there was no need for them to pretend.

“Stop thinking,” she admonished, sailing back through the vortex of bodies who kept disturbing his equilibrium by bumping against them.

“Hmm?”

“I’m told that’s the theme of tonight’s ritual.” She spun wide on her next release, arms out, hands cupping the air to catch the diamond rain. “See?”

Another careening dancer whooped and snared her hand, sweeping her against his chest. “Ah, look, lads, I think I’ve caught an angel!”

Something snapped.

The Doctor reached past her, gripped the man’s mask and shoved him backwards. Amidst startled oaths, he seized Nyssa’s shoulders and began to hustle her away. As soon as they had found an open space, he scrabbled for her glove, rolling it up far enough to press his palm against hers. Nothing happened.

“Doctor?” she breathed.

“I need to get you away from here,” he said. Alarms were going off in the back of his mind, but he could not think why.

“All right,” she said, lacing her fingers through his. “Let me do it.”

The ballroom, the dancers, the eerie masks and writhing costumes vanished. Silence and the flickering light of shell-lanterns enfolded them. The Doctor was all too aware of the overflowing containers of flowers around the room, the flare of her nostrils, his own heartbeats slightly out of synch, and the overpowering curve of her shoulders without demure velvet to conceal them.

“Now,” she said, with a puckish smile that made his head swim, “What’s this all about?”

“Dionysos,” he said, and stopped. What had put that into his head? If only he could marshal his thoughts, but they were all tangled up in tangents. Something about the subdued lighting put him in mind of an ancient temple, redolent with the smoke of sacrifices.

“I still don’t understand the reference,” she said. “The Dauphin was rather elliptical.”

“Hm?” No, not a temple, an art gallery. Chiaroscuro, Rembrandt’s brushstrokes, might just capture the slide of lamplight over her clavicles.

“Dionysos, Doctor.”

“Oh. Yes. Ancient Earth deity,” he said. “Personification of drama, frenzy, wild nature outside the bounds of civilisation.” He traced two fingers along a swirling tendril fringing Nyssa’s décolletage. “The vine.”

“Ah,” she said, a little breathless. “I see.” She dimpled up at him, an odd tremor in her voice. “Appropriate inappropriateness?”

“You could put it that way, yes.” Her tantalising words hung in the air like an invitation. His hands began to stray lower, chasing shadows, tracing lines. Everything in its place, perfect harmony of flesh and intellect—

Her indrawn breath was almost a flinch, but she leaned into his caresses. “Are you sure you’re all right, Doctor?”

“Better than…” He lifted her hand, frowning when his lips found only fabric. Impatient, he caught the fingertips of her glove in his teeth and tugged. Nyssa’s startled giggle was more flattered than offended. She reached with her other hand to help. Together they peeled the glove free. Then he began to kiss her fingers, smiling as she responded with feather-light touches on his jaw below the mask. She set a palm against his chest, silently urging him back across the room. Ignoring the foreboding gong of the cloister bell tolling in his subconscious, he unfastened her mask and discarded it in an overflowing basin of flowers.

Her face beckoned him. She was gazing upwards with a raw tenderness that was almost shattering. He lowered her hand and bowed his head, eager to seize the moment.

The locket slipped from her wrist. There was a faint jingle of chain, then the dissonant _ting_ of the jewel striking the floor. The Doctor stiffened, eyes widening in horror, stumbling backwards into the bed. Nyssa, oblivious, kept bumping against him like a very small tugboat trying to manoeuvre him onto it.

He jerked his hands away. “Nyssa, stop. _Stop._ ” He was afraid to touch her, even to fend her off. Comprehension did not stem the tide of inexcusable, primitive urges that were swamping higher brain function. “The lattice—gestalt—distorting our perceptions.”

“Hmm?” She looked at him, grey eyes dilated. Then lucidity reasserted itself with a rueful chuckle. “Oh, dear. It’s a fertility ritual, isn’t it?”

Those ghastly words hit him in the solar plexus. He sat down on the mattress, dropping his face into his hands. “Yes,” he said. “Nyssa, I’m so sorry.”

She laughed. “What for? I was quite enjoying that.”

“For goodness’ sake, Nyssa, pull yourself together! It’s no laughing matter.” Panic flashed to anger. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Romana was right. I should never have brought you here. You’re in terrible danger.”

“Hardly terrible. But I think Achille tried to warn me,” she said. “He said I’d be safe with him.”

“ _Damn_ the boy!” he exploded. His arms were halfway around her before she set an elbow against his chest and pushed him away. He sat down again, breathing hard. “Nyssa, you’ve got to leave.”

“Your mental reserves must be drained. You really can’t block the effect?” Was it wishful thinking, or did she sound almost hopeful?

“Too many minds,” he said wildly. “You’re not a full telepath; you’re missing half the signal.” He wrenched himself to his feet, ran and plunged towards the portal onto the balcony, away from her body heat and out into the cold night air.

There was no escape. He fetched up short against the shimmering balustrade and gripped it, taking in great gulps of frigid air. But she had trailed after him, despite the biting cold. She must be freezing. His hands tightened on the railing, staving off the urge to sweep his cloak around her.

“Doctor, I know this is awkward for you,” she said. “But truly, objectively, why is it so terrible? It’s simply amplifying latent impulses and desires, yes?”

“Y-yes… _no!”_ He reddened. “That’s not it at all.”

Nyssa ignored him. “So it’s only a question of what we— _don’t you dare!_ ”

He had made an abortive lunge, but found himself checked by her hold on his cloak.

“Give me a moment to think _,_ since you’re clearly incapable of it right now!” Nyssa snapped. “Frankly, I ought to be offended. Surely it’s better to be mortified than mortally injured?”

His mouth quirked into a ragged, rictus smile. “You may not know me as well as you think, Nyssa.”

“Apparently not.” With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around herself. “I could try programming a seal across the door between our rooms.”

“Do you trust yourself to do it?” he said, pained. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” she said, and stopped.

He stifled another kick of exultation. “Take the key. You can teleport straight back to the gates.”

“And then what? Back to the TARDIS? In subzero temperatures?”

He closed his eyes. “Nyssa, please…”

“All right. I’ll think of something.” She pressed a hand briefly against his back. “I’ll see you in the morning. Try not to worry.”

There was a flash. He turned around to find himself alone on the balcony. Stunned and chagrinned, he stumbled back inside.

He had tossed and turned on the bed for an hour before he remembered she did not have a TARDIS key.

* * *

“Lord Doctor.”

Disorientated, he jerked away from the tall figure looming over him in the grey light of dawn.

“Forgive this intrusion, my lord, but the Lady Nyssa enjoined me to rouse you for the ceremony and ascertain your well-being.”

The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, then sat up with a start. “Nyssa? Where is she?”

“In the royal apartments, my lord,” Adyton said, voice brittle. “It pleased His Holiness-Elect to offer her accommodations.”

“What?!” The last shreds of sleep scattered. He hopped out of bed and stormed around it to face the Warder. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Nyssa’s mask resting on the nightstand with a chain and jewel coiled neatly beside it. “Take me to her at once.”

Adyton stared past his shoulder, stone-faced and disapproving. “That is quite impossible at this time. May I bring Her Grace a favourable report?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Adyton, I need to speak with her.”

“After the ceremony, my lord, the High Hierophant would grant a boon to his benefactor. Is there aught that you require?”

The walls and floor reverberated with a bright skirl of trumpets.

“I require—” the Doctor began with some heat, and stopped. Barging into Achille’s private chambers would be equally embarrassing for all of them. “Forget it.”

“Then if you please, my lord, make haste. That was second _cornu_ , and the High Hierophant of the Five Revealed Truths shall assume his place in the celestial firmament when the fifth rings out. Clasp the jewel and pronounce the Queen’s name to be conveyed to the Hall of Jupiter forthwith. She has a great duty to perform, and your presence would lighten her burdens.”

“Very well.” He scowled. What game was Rhea playing at? Probably trying to ensure her son’s safety. That might explain the Warder’s bristling irritation, which he could not quite conceal. “I’m sure you have other duties, Adyton. Thank you.”

The man bowed stiffly and vanished.

The Doctor was of half a mind not to attend the ceremony at all, but it would be a pity to come so far and miss the finale. Besides, Nyssa would be there.

After a quick dip in the sonic shower and a pass through the wardrobe’s field to freshen his clothes, he strode to the nightstand and picked up the key.

“Rhea,” he said.

Nothing happened. The Queen’s name? Which one? “Her Serene Highness Rhea, High Priestess of the House of Hygieia, Holy Mother, Queen Dowager and…” The jewel remained stubbornly inert. “Queen Rhea Feronia Marie-Louise Estelline. _Minerva._ ”

Still nothing. He stalked around the room, caged. The air was vibrating with a collective indrawn breath, brimming excitement like a basin about to overflow. Some of that pent-up psychic energy was already beginning to spill over in a rush of awe and joy. It would be just his luck to miss the Coronation for want of a simple password. Why hadn’t Adyton simply given it to him? He supposed he had been short with the man, but he could not shake the impression that the Warder had been as annoyed and embarrassed as he was.

In mid-circle, the Doctor’s gaze fell upon the discarded shell-mask lying on the nightstand. A hollow, sinking feeling seized his stomach.

“Nyssa,” he said. “Nyssa of Traken.”

The beam whisked him away.

He arrived at the front of the great hall as four mighty horn-blasts shook the sky. The Doctor was barely aware of the affronted courtiers shifting on either side, shocked by his tardy arrival. His eyes were fixed on the tableau hanging above the level of the mezzanine, suspended on a field of amber mist. He had to shield his gaze from the sun just peeking over the mountaintops, sending streaming shafts that bathed the elevated figures in coloured splendour.

Saffron-robed priests and priestesses flanked the dais. At centre left stood the Queen Dowager, imperious and triumphant, once more garbed in the cream and violet _robe volante_ and terracotta goddess-mask of Hygieia. In her hands she clasped a polished metal bowl or mirror that was too bright to look at. Opposite her stood Acheron in a ruby-coloured doublet and cloak, towering over most of those present, lowering his arms as if he had just delivered a benediction. Between them, two dazzling figures faced one another, one in grey and silver, the other in pale gold.

Achille had shed Harlequin’s piebald for an appropriately Apolline costume. He was resplendent in golden brocades with a stylised solar breastplate, sun-discs flashing at elbows and knees, elevated shoes to give him more stature, a magnificent plumed headdress with rays of bronze wire to set off his fine features. He reached up to adjust the heavy crown as if it had been placed there just a moment before. Beard shorn, face painted gold like a statue’s, he looked terribly young, more of a Mercury or Cupid than an Apollo.

All this the Doctor barely took in. His eyes were riveted on the new Minerva, petite yet radiating concentrated authority. Her grey-feathered cloak rippled and fluttered around her shoulders. An owl-mask and a veil of silver gauze concealed her curls. The archetype suited her, he thought glumly. Apart, perhaps, from the spear-tipped wand she grasped. He wondered if anyone had thought to tell her that their personification of wisdom and technical arts was also a goddess of war.

The Doctor wrenched his attention back to the ceremony. Achille was speaking again, wrapping up his coronation oath. Out rang his own clear tenor, unamplified. “…Thy wisdom shall I uphold, as the firmament upholds the spheres.”

“Then, mantled in the Five Truths…”

 _Change!_ and here the crowd’s chant surged over Nyssa’s mask-augmented voice as she struck Achille’s bare right hand with the wand.

 _Entropy!_ This time his left hand took the blow.

 _Growth!_ The point clanged against the breastplate over his heart.

 _Complexity!_ A sharp rap to the brow. To the boy’s credit, he did not blink nor flinch as the spearpoint drew blood just above and between his eyes.

_Attraction!_

There was an expectant hush. Nyssa lowered her wand, leaned forward and bestowed a reverent kiss. Diamond rain sifted down in the enraptured silence as the couple embraced tenderly, maintaining the kiss as long as the Doctor cared to watch. He looked back again when thunderous applause shattered the stillness, to find the sun had fully arisen, bathing the couple in blinding light. Over the young man’s face, Nyssa was placing the polished gold mask which he was doomed to wear for life. Five times the trumpets blared. As their brazen notes died away, it felt as if the entire Basilica leapt and hung weightless for a split second. In that suspended moment, Nyssa called out in clear, ringing tones:

“The High Hierophant of the Five Truths stands revealed!”

Shouts of _Apollo! Apollo! Le soleil se lève!_ arose from every throat but one.

The Doctor turned away. He had seen enough. Numb and suddenly very tired, he sent a mental command to the jewel that had lain forgotten in his hand.

As the din and throng faded away in the transmat beam, memories of Jo’s wedding reception crashed over him with the force of heavy surf. He had last come to the Basilica with Jo, when they had received that fateful invitation for services rendered. Now he wished it had lain in a letterbox for a few more regenerations. But one could not retract time’s arrow. He would be leaving the Basilica alone.

Best to get it over with.

Exiting the main edifice as distant _huzzahs_ continued to rock every strut and plane, he tried not to begrudge a friend’s good fortune. He had promised Tremas’ ghost he would see Nyssa bestowed somewhere safely, give her a chance to find the joy she’d lost when Traken was destroyed. Where better than here? After all she’d endured during their travels, all the lives she had saved or soothed, she of all people deserved a happy ending.

Too preoccupied to notice the beauty around him, he had just reached the head of the final ramp leading out of the Basilica when Adyton materialised before him and bowed low.

“Lord Doctor,” he said formally. “His Holiness the High Hierophant of the Five Revealed Truths and Her Serene Grace his consort extend their favour to their most trusted advisor. They bid you join them on the Celestial Dais forthwith.”

“I don’t make a habit of kowtowing to the bidding of royalty, as your Queen ought to remember,” the Doctor said crossly.

Adyton stiffened. “It is a high honour to be raised to their level, Lord Doctor, higher than I myself am permitted.”

“Ah, yes. Tender my apologies, would you? There’s a good chap. Something urgent’s come up, and I’m needed elsewhere. Nyssa will understand. And…” he started to look over his shoulder at the Basilica, checked himself. “Please, give her my blessing.”

Did the Warder ever stop looking disgruntled? Glancing at the guards standing at wooden attention on either side of the gates, Adyton bowed once more. “Very good, my lord.”

Setting his back to the sunrise, the Doctor stepped onto the sweeping walkway that would carry him back to the canyon’s rim and the TARDIS waiting below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: "The Ballet of the Night." French Baroque ballet by Lully [performed by teenaged Louis XIV as a piece of political propaganda](http://x-cetra.tumblr.com/post/126319698876/dance-magic-dance), portraying him as an incarnation of the god Apollo ("the sun king") banishing the darkness, strife and disorder that marred the start of his reign.
> 
> I drew heavily on [this amazing video clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYHPNgSUIoE) of _Le Ballet de la Nuit_ in the French film _Le Roi Danse_. (Achille is a few years older than Louis in that clip, more like [James MacAvoy](https://galeri.uludagsozluk.com/r/james-mcavoy-582144/) about 5-10 years ago.)


	3. Ballets de Cour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone for the first time since his regeneration, the Fifth Doctor relearns what it's like to travel in an uncrowded TARDIS, while Nyssa must troubleshoot planetary problems on her own.

_“Love truth, but pardon error.” — Voltaire_

 

Achille drummed fingertips on his throne in polite applause, saluting a group of aerial dancers executing a three-dimensional triskelion before the royal dais. “Were you able to establish contact?”

“No.” Nyssa sighed, keeping her eyes on the performance. “I tuned the lattice’s resonance to a frequency the TARDIS should be able to detect. But he has to be listening. Or perhaps he’s too far away.” She had to give the Doctor the benefit of doubt.

“I confess I find it difficult to fathom how a bosom friend could strand you thus without a word.”

“A friend only, Highness.” Her smile was wistful. “Unfortunately, I can. He hates goodbyes.”

“Commending you to my custody, in considerable danger.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “For me, this hardly counts as danger. You’re the one in peril.”

“I must praise the gods for entrusting me with so steadfast a Minerva.” He reached across their armrests, laying his hand over hers. “Have a care lest I begin to love thee overmuch.”

Adyton cleared his throat behind them. “Majesties…”

Achille drew his hand away at once. “Well, my dear, on the presumption that your champion may not return, we needs must take thought for your future. I fear you have sacrificed all too much for mine.”

“I will take no such thought, for it is based on an improbability.” For a moment, Nyssa lost the soothing sense of well-being that permeated the Basilica. She stifled an irrational longing for the TARDIS hum. “In the meantime, being here is hardly a sacrifice. The Basilica is one of the most marvelous places I’ve ever seen.”

“High praise, from one who has traversed the firmament.”

“Yes.” _Traversed_. The past tense troubled her more than she cared to admit. She tried to refocus her attention on a flurry of youngsters chasing one another overhead, garbed as personifications of the rainbow. What must it have been like, to grow up in a place where walking on the ceiling was not merely an exercise of the imagination? “Speaking of travels, I’d like to accompany you on your next trip to the Healing Hives of Hygieia.”

“Mother would ordain you in a heartbeat. She’s quite taken with you, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” The Queen Dowager had embarrassed both of them with an effusive blessing almost before Achille could deliver the happy news.

The performance was drawing to a close. As the variable tempo resolved into a triumphant chord, the dancers unwound their interlocking figures into a stairstep pattern angled downward towards the dais. They froze in elaborate tableau, outstretched arms forming an undulating wave linking the High Hierophant to the heavens.

“There is nothing in this for which _you_ need apologise, dear lady.” Rising, he clapped his hands. “Salute the light!” he cried in a high, clear voice. “ _Apollo oriens_!”

“ _Etiam Minerva_!”

Nyssa rose with him, settling her hand upon his wrist. Together, they strode out onto shimmering air, ascended to the top of the invisible ladder, pivoted en pointe to face one another, and began to circle. The dancers and the rest of the court spiraled in around them like planets coalescing around a newborn star. No diamond rain embellished this occasion, but the waterfall draped over the ceiling added a pleasant plashing during gaps in the music.

For a time, the complexities of dance and the effortless grace of her partner afforded Nyssa a refuge from second thoughts. It was indeed restful here, the polar opposite of the turmoil that had engulfed her life since meeting the Doctor. She would not mind basking in the Basilica’s tranquility for a season or two. Nevertheless, despite her feigned bravado, she knew the danger had not ended when Apollo symbolically banished the chaos of Dionysos from his domain. There was a serpent somewhere in this garden, perhaps more than one.

The body of the gunman had not been found. It was an unobstructed fall from the balcony to the river at the bottom of the canyon. Unless the body had snagged on something underwater, it ought to have turned up in one of the weirs shielding the turbines that helped power the Basilica. There was no record of an escape via transmat, but if someone possessed the skill to override the network’s lockdown codes, then they could have covered their tracks.

If only the Doctor were here. He would have traced the assassin before the scent grew cold. She knew enough of his methods to make a start, but protocol boxed her in quite as effectively as a prison cell. It was impossible to leave Achille’s side long enough to conduct an investigation, especially with so many curious eyes following her every move. All she could do was surreptitiously watch the watchers, searching for any signs of resentment or subterfuge. Not easy, with so many wearing masks.

There was no telling when the Doctor might return. Until then, she had to absorb all she could of the world in which she found herself, starting with her unexpected consort.

“I have a question,” she said.

The Hierophant gave her a gentle nudge, reminding her that the figures reversed when the music changed from an odd to even tempo. “Anything that is in my power to grant.”

She smiled. “I only wondered what your name meant.”

“Ah, that.” He sounded pleased. “It means a son who outgrew his mother’s hopes. Do you not recognise it?”

“It sounds human, but I can’t place it.”

“Achilles at Skyros. A legend of ancient Earth.”

“You shall have to tell it to me later, then.”

“Not so, my inquisitive Minerva.” His eyes were mischievous behind his mask. “I shall dance it for you. And you alone shall see.”

* * *

Striding briskly to the console, the Doctor slapped the door control hard to shut himself in. His shoulder twinged in protest. Gritting his teeth at the reminder of a night he would rather forget, he shucked off his eyemask and cloak and tossed them onto the hatrack. They hung there like limp Mardis Gras souvenirs, offending the dignity of the console room. That would never do. Snatching them down again, he pushed through the inner door and headed for the sanctuary of his own quarters, stripping along the way since there was no one else to see. Tearing off the ridiculous doublet tweaked his shoulder again, but it was a cleaner pain than the dull ache between his hearts. He did not glance at the door to Nyssa’s room as he passed by.

A short time later, he returned to the control room, restored to his usual cricketing outfit and a more composed frame of mind. Whistling to himself as he circled the console, he took the time to perform a few routine checks that he normally omitted before take-off. But he ignored the flashing light on the communications console.

Yes, he was alone again, for the first time since regenerating. And for how many hundreds of years before that? It must have been after he parted from Leela, the last person he had expected to forsake adventures for love. Even then, he had not been altogether alone. Perhaps he should construct another K-9 unit to keep him company.

Or perhaps not. He had begun this life in a crowded TARDIS, spending his first year shepherding strays and orphans. It might be refreshing to travel solo for a while.

“And besides,” he said, patting the console, “You’re all the company I need, old girl.”

He began to key in an open-ended departure sequence, allowing the TARDIS to choose their next destination. That indicator light was still blinking insistently. He started to answer it, shook his head, and moved to the dematerialisation controls.

The irrevocable _choom_ of the time rotor’s downstroke was sweeter music than any geometric sonata.

* * *

By her fifth sunset, Nyssa had acclimated to the musical rhythms of the Basilica. It was not difficult to feel at home, as the Doctor had predicted, where servants and automated systems coddled one’s every need. Life here was beautiful, mannered and orderly. Even the court’s odd predilection for dance, etiquette expressed in mannered poses, held a certain aesthetic logic. Not that she wasn’t relieved to escape the Basilica’s exacting pomp on the rare occasions when she and Achille managed to steal an hour’s stroll in the sky.

Or a half hour’s dance. For a practice hall, they ascended to one of the highest spans in the Basilica, fenced from prying eyes by a double line of trees. Nyssa was delighted to find a partner who could appreciate the formalities of Traken court dance, while he enjoyed teaching her the Basilica’s complex mathematical sequences. But sometimes they just walked together, trading stories. Achille was agreeable company. Nyssa found herself opening up about Traken, unearthing memories of peaceful times that had been too painful to recall until now.

Today, however, it was Achille’s turn to regale her, inspired by a bird that had swooped down and made off with Nyssa’s owl-mask. The High Hierophant had finished up spread-eagled on his back, grinning up at her with mask askew, playing the part of a victim toppled by a chalice falling out of a tree. “…And at the last, rather than admit he had purloined the cup from the vault in the first place, the Burgrave was obliged to lodge formal charges against the winged thief. Who, being well-versed in the art of camouflage by conformity, was never discovered.”

Chuckling, Nyssa offered him a hand up. “I can only conclude that you issue transmat keys to your avian residents,” she said. “Maybe I should submit my petition for a key while wearing that feathered robe I wore for the Coronation.”

“Dear lady, does that still vex you?” He stroked the back of her glove, which concealed no key beneath it now. “I am sorry. For all my powers of persuasion, you are still an unknown quantity in my… in our people’s equations. We shall pose it to the Council once they have grown more accustomed to the beguiling offworlder who has, they say, bewitched my reason.”

“Beguiling.” She pursed her lips. “That’s an insidious line of attack.”

“I shall endeavour to prove I am not ruled by woman’s wiles.”

“And meanwhile, I suppose I had better play the part of demure consort.” She sighed. “It’s a beautiful birdcage, Your Highness, but it’s hard to search for clues without freedom of movement.”

“Leave the investigation to my worthy Adyton. He is already stricken to the marrow that you intervened as my defender. Grant him the dignity of apprehending the culprit.” Taking her hand, he drew her gently between two trees to the glimmering railing. From this high vantage point the whole Basilica fanned out below them in heaped-up prisms, as if sunlight had been crystalised into the opposite of an iceberg. “But come. Is that truly what you behold, a cage? I supposed… I dared hope that you found delight in our aerial domain.”

“Oh, I do.” She shivered. The dizzying drop reminded her of her scuffle with the assassin. Still, it would be a pity to let that spoil the breathtaking splendour laid out before her. “I told you: it’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I could get used to living here.”

“That is well, since you are my wife!” Seeing her expression falter, he folded his hands around hers. “All that is mine is yours now, dear lady. Remember that, and claim it as your own.”

“All except for Ad— oh, good evening, Holy Mother.” Stepping back from the balustrade, she offered a simple reverence to the stately matron gliding towards them like a ship under full sail.

“Sorry to interrupt, children,” the Queen Dowager said. “The Laconian delegation has arrived early, and the _ex_ -Regent thought to spare His Holiness the trouble of receiving them, since he’s been handling their portfolio up until now.”

Achille hissed through his teeth. “I see. My thanks, _Pia Mater._ I shall go at once. My Queen?” He offered her his elbow.

“I’d like a word with Her Grace _,_ ” said Rhea.

Achille hesitated. “Mother—”

“Don’t tell me you’re so besotted that you can’t bear to discharge a simple reception in the absence of your new good-luck charm.”

Privately, Nyssa suspected that the barb was wishful thinking on the Dowager’s part. She had been pulling strings to ensure the royal couple were never apart. Which made this private audience surprising. “If the Holy Mother has need of me, then by your leave I shall join you for dinner.” Nyssa bobbed a correct courtesy to Achille.

“Very well. I shall send an escort to convey you down to the feast-hall.” He raised her wrist to his lips.“Take care lest the birds carry off my fairest jewel.”

He vanished. Nyssa tilted her head at Rhea and waited, assuming a posture that was at once more businesslike and more casual.

“No word from the Doctor, then?”

“No.” Nyssa shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we cannot count on his help, now.” It stung to say it.

Rhea’s eyes were shrewd behind her terracotta mask, an old-fashioned likeness of a severe goddess. “I’m not surprised. He may not be such a _chevalier galant_ in this incarnation, but the man still has his pride.”

Nyssa grimaced. “I know. I wish I could’ve left him a note, explained—”

“Why you flew straight from the Doctor’s arms to my son’s private chambers? Nothing would’ve sufficed. And a missive might have been intercepted.” Rhea flapped a hand. “It’s done. He’s gone.”

“Perhaps so.” Nyssa did not want to believe it. But it was hardly the first time the staircase of her life had burned away behind her, turning a moment’s parting into forever. As always, all she could do was keep moving forward. Taking a long breath, she moved resolutely back to the railing, gazing down past the Basilica to the billowing mists rising out of the dark chasm below their feet. There were ghostly lights twinkling through the fog. Some sort of bioluminescence, or were there dwellings farther down?

“It’s beginning to sink in at last, is it?” Rhea said. “The staggering fortune that’s fallen into your lap. Not a bad life, this.”

“No, I suppose not,” Nyssa admitted, although that was very far from her thoughts. “Nevertheless… forgive me, Holy Mother, but it’s not the life’s work I’d sought for myself. At least, not since I left Traken. Those lights… are there structures carved into the cliffs?”

“Troglodytes,” Rhea said, giving her a considering look. “The servants and maintenance workers for the Basilica live down there.”

Nyssa nodded. Tegan had taught her to look for what she did not care to see. The Celestial Basilica floated in the clouds, but its foundations were more earthly. “I should like to visit the lower levels sometime, to inspect the conditions,” she said, testing the limits of the cage.

Rhea snorted. “Offworlder,” she said, not unkindly. “Well, take it up with your husband. But not for a while, I pray you. We have weightier matters to worry about. We can’t count on a Time Lord’s timely intervention, as you say. So, have you two children hatched any more bright ideas?”

Nyssa shook her head. “I’ve been trying to master the transmat network. If I could find some anomaly, anything that could be linked to the assassin’s movements during the night before the coronation, I… I mean, the Warder might set up a surveillance program to watch for future incursions.”

Rhea eyed her skeptically. “You think you can find something that he and the guardians of the Heavenly Gates have not?”

“Perhaps not,” Nyssa said, “but I am more familiar with alien technology than they are. I might be able to tease out that weapon’s energy signature. Even a biomarker, some xenocellular residue might provide a clue.”

Rhea nodded. “Very well. But that doesn’t solve our larger problem, does it?”

Nyssa glanced pensively at the spot where Achille had disappeared. “No. And I confess I’m at a loss. How long do you think we have?”

“Three or four months. I could take you to the Healing Hives for monitoring, but it will be difficult for him to justify staying with you for the duration.”

Nyssa fell silent, sorting through a jumble of conflicting thoughts. Beneath his cultivated air of bravura, the Hierophant was in an increasingly precarious position. Soon he would be a sitting target. “Then… perhaps we should allow the assassin another shot at him.”

Rhea stiffened. Nyssa shrank from her glare. Had she misjudged the woman’s shrewd intelligence? Then the Dowager’s proud posture sagged like a crimped stay. “You’ll do,” she said. “Ah, daughter of Traken, you’ll do very well, when the time comes.”

“I shall do all I can.” Simple words, but a silent credo since Traken’s fall.

“So I see.” The woman brushed a speck of bark from Nyssa’s veil. “Almost I wish you had been my daughter.”

* * *

Someone was cradling the Doctor’s head, while another raised a chalice to his lips. A syrupy-tart taste like stewed apricots spread over his tongue. Too late, he flinched away from the unknown draught. Futile coughing overtook him for a few seconds, long enough for him to register the stern features of the red-robed woman stooping over him.

“You are safe, Time Lord, for all your strivings. Be still.”

He fell back weakly against the stone floor of the grotto. “Ohica?” he said. The girl supporting his head gave an angry hiss. “High One,” he corrected himself politely. “That’s right, you’ve had a promotion.”

“The Time Lord regains his wits. Enough, Meave. Take our sister to a place of rest and return to your duties.”

The acolyte bowed, moved to a tattered figure leaning against a column, and led her away.

The Doctor raised his head. “Sister Nalan. She was in a bad way—”

“The Elixir of Life has restored her. She will recover,” Ohica said. She set the chalice aside on a stone plinth and frowned. “She says you were alone. Have you not a handmaid of your own to save, that you needs must rescue mine?”

“You’re welcome.”

Ohica never smiled, but the sternness around her eyes relaxed an iota. “So once again, the Sisterhood are in your debt. What boon would you ask of us this time, Time Lord?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Glad to help. I’ll just…” He groaned, head spinning as he tried to stand, and fell back with a thump. “Wait until the Elixir’s finished doing whatever it’s doing. Powerful kick, hasn’t it? Have you considered mixing it with fruit juice?”

Ignoring his inane babble, Ohica stared across the dim chamber to an oxidised metal door through whose cracks shone a flicker of flame. “Silence. You know that your presence in the Holy of Holies is a gross transgression of our laws.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “So kind of your sisters to carry me and Nalan back here. I’m sure I couldn’t have walked.”

“I shall scry for you,” she said, eyes flashing wide in that peculiar way that reminded him of his old companion, Polly.

“Ah, I’ll pass, but thanks all the same,” he said. “That’s against _my_ people’s laws, you know, to learn about our own future.”

“I must do as the Flame bids,” Ohica said severely, “just as you must do what is in your nature, whatever the laws that forbid it. Attend.” Crossing her hands over her heart, she moved to stand before the screen shielding their holy of holies. “I see flames,” she said slowly, eyes half-closing.

“A lot of them about,” he said, attempting to sit up again.

“I see a burning ship of the air.”

He tensed. “The TARDIS?” he asked in spite of himself.

“Nay. A palace that floats mid-sky.”

That was almost worse. “The Celestial Basilica?” he said. “No. don’t answer that. Ohica, stop this. Whatever you have to tell me, I’m sure it can wait until you can say, ‘I told you so.’ I promise I’ll be properly chagrinned.”

The woman droned on, unheeding. “Your companion will die there. Your companion will not die there. The Web of Time shudders.”

“Enough.” He really needed to start carrying earplugs along with all the other bric-a-brac in his pockets. “I didn’t ask—”

“No, you did not. You decided.” The woman’s eyes snapped open. Her face was graven and pitiless. “But the Sacred Flame bids me ask: what is it that would move you to defy the Web of Time?”

Bewildered, groggy and alarmed, he shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said. “Hope, perhaps?”

Ohica snorted. “Hope.”

“You should try it sometime, High One,” he said. “I know hope’s hard to come by when you can just flip to the last page and take a peep, but you can’t let a little thing like predestination get in the way of a good story. You can never be sure. Tea leaves get soggy, crystal balls go foggy, sacred flames—”

“You know the answer to the Flame’s riddle. But you fear it, and so you call it by another name.” She turned her back on him and waved towards a dark opening. “Your TARDIS is there. Go, Doctor, and seek your so-called hope. I pray you do not discover the taste of ashes before you find it. ”

* * *

The High Hierophant had been wise to present Nyssa’s suggestions for improving transmat security as his own, arrived at in consultation with the Warder. Even so, there were knowing smiles around the council chamber as of elders listening tolerantly to a child’s enthusiasms. He pretended not to notice. “Since my brother saw fit to disrupt the coronation…”

“With respect, Your All-Holiness,” said Acheron, “There is scarce more evidence to link Auguste’s hand to this attack than there was to the poison that cleared your way to the throne.”

Achille raised his hand to forestall angry murmurs. “Pray let him speak. We shall not flinch at facts, however they are glossed.”

“My thanks,” Acheron said, half-bowing. “Auguste’s culpability was in sufficient doubt that your sire never judged it proved, despite the zeal of this Council to expel him and embrace a younger, more malleable monarch.” He gazed placidly around the chamber, a tipped bowl with the Hierophant’s throne at the highest point.

Nyssa, enthroned at Achille’s left hand on a level just below his, glanced past him to the tall man seated on his right. Acheron’s chair floated a step below hers, but his head was level with the Hierophant’s, making it difficult to see anything of his face below his mask. She filed a mental note while Achille waited for the uproar to settle.

“I appreciate your frank assessment, uncle, however unflattering. But my abduction? Was that, too, unproven?”

“Be not blinded by Auguste’s misguided attempt to secure a private audience with you and plead his case. You came to no harm by his hands.”

“The Priestesses of Hygieia might dispute you,” Achille said. “Had the Lord Doctor and Lady Jo not returned me to their care so quickly—”

“Forgive me, Your All-Holiness.” Acheron lowered his head and shoulders. “All my sister-sons are dear to me, and it is grievous to me that five noble scions have been reduced to one slender wand of hope.”

“But surely, Your Excellency,” Nyssa said, forgetting her promise to play silent obsever, “there is no question about the assassin’s identity? The Warder saw him face to face.”

Mutters from several Councillors reminded her of woman’s place in the hierarchy.

“Was the gunman’s face unmasked?” Acheron countered.

The Hierophant frowned. “I like not this line of inquiry, uncle.”

“Your Holiness, while you have no issue, the flower of the Basilica balances on a delicate stem. Your safety becomes our first principle, after Truth. We cannot afford to neglect any line of inquiry. Therefore, I must ask: did or did not the Warder see him to know him? Let the man speak.”

“Well, Warder?” the Hierophant said.

Adyton cleared his throat from behind the thrones where he stood watch. “He sported the half-mask of a Person of Mark,” he said, “and his voice was very like the Lord Auguste’s.”

“But you cannot be certain,” Acheron persisted. “And what evidence, Warder, have you amassed to show an attempt was made on the High Hierophant’s life?”

“An offworlder weapon was found at the very spot where the Lord Doctor scuffled with the stranger and, according to witnesses, was struck with an energy discharge consistent with his injuries. We presume the weapon belonged to the Queen’s abductor. Nonetheless, some eyewitnesses assert it was the property of the Lord Doctor,” he said, “who quit the field with strange and sudden discourtesy before I could question him.”

“The Doctor never carries weapons!” Nyssa burst out as the chamber erupted a third time.

Achille rose to his feet, right hand resting casually on his sword-hilt. The hubbub died away at once.

“I owe the Lord Doctor my life,” he said in a high, clear voice. “And I will tolerate insult against my own person, but not my lady the Queen’s. Have a care, _old friend,_ what you suggest.” Nyssa could not see the Warder stiffen behind them, but she could hear his indrawn breath. By calling him friend while calling him out, Achille had both honoured and humiliated him before the whole Council.

A fabrication. That was what was being suggested, a dangerous idea to sow among the Council’s sharpest minds. If the thwarted assassination attempt was staged, then its aim had been to bring Nyssa to the Hierophant’s attention in a spectacularly favourable light. The widely-celebrated consequence of that encounter was her emergence from the royal bedchamber the next morning.

She could not quell gossip, but she could and must stop Acheron from using her to drive a wedge between Achille and his devoted shadow. “Your Highness, precision with facts does not insult me. But this much is certain: the Warder will not rest until he has laid hands on those who mean you harm. I pray we grant him whatever facility might aid that endeavour.”

Her interruption drew titters around the room, but it had the desired effect. Achille inclined his head. “Indeed. Setting aside for now the ongoing inquiry, let us return to the question of girding the Heavenly Gates…”

The transmat network upgrade passed with little debate, framed as a means to keep offworlder tools of violence from disrupting the peaceful harmony of the Basilica. It was difficult to screen for every form of focused energy weapon, but sadly, Nyssa’s travels had given her a fair idea what to look for.

The Council ground on, tackling mundane matters from the budget for an upcoming religious festival to a spiritual conundrum that was stoking heated debate among the Basilica’s philosophers. Nyssa resumed her discreet observations, noting who might have the skill to alter transmat records. She almost managed to keep silent for the remainder of the meeting, until talk turned to the construction of a new solar energy storage facility to be embedded in the cliffs below the palace. 

Nyssa could not help herself. “Isn’t that a residential area?”

“Troglodytes.” The Minister of Energy waved the word aside with a handkerchief he was using to punctuate his speech. “A fortnight will be more than sufficient to clear the area of obstructions.”

“I beg your pardon, Minister,” she said. “The Basilica’s mastery of gravitic fields is unparalleled, but I believe there may be ways to improve battery efficiency and transmission by an order of magnitude. On Traken, the Source—”

Acheron chuckled. “It seems, Your Holiness, that your consort will be the power behind the throne as surely as was my sister.”

“Truths may out, uncle, from unlikely vessels.”

“So I have observed,” Acheron said with a slight emphasis that made Nyssa wonder.

“Very well.” the Hierophant said. “I defer final approval, until my Minerva has had an opportunity to review our storage facilities and suggest refinements from Traken’s technick arts. Let us move to the charter for the Artificers Guild…”

She felt both annoyance and relief as everyone in the Council promptly dismissed her presence again. Almost everyone, that is. Acheron’s knowing smile widened for a split second as she glanced towards him.

She did not see what he saw: the Warder’s dour gaze fixed upon her back.

* * *

Three months. Three months it had taken the Doctor to stage a successful prison break, and some of his fellow slaves had died under the gears of their metal guards. Three months of stewing over Ohica’s dire pronouncements. Three months of mentally reciting double dactyls and solving quintic equations and reviewing the entire history of the Harappan civilisation and anything else to keep from going mad during the long, bruising hours of dritium mining. Nyssa had left just in time. She might not have survived this.

He levered away the last of the rubble and squeezed through a gap to the welcome sight of the TARDIS looming out of the darkness. Opening the door, he found himself nearly blinded by the light streaming out. Freedom at last. Hurrying inside, he whispered a fervent, “Hello, old girl,” and set her in motion.

He barely reached his own bed before collapsing. He should have enjoyed a deep healing sleep, cocooned in a time bubble safe aboard his ship, but Ohica’s words tainted his dreams. He saw the Basilica ablaze, sinking from its moorings like an enormous punctured balloon, small figures falling forever from its upper reaches. Dead but not dead. Zeno’s paradox kept swallowing them like an impotent black hole, forever drawing them in. The Web of Time buzzed like an angry hive, a lattice of tortured minds pleading for him to _come back, come back, come back_ , trying to ensnare him with the face of every companion he had left behind. Adric’s freighter exploded again and again in a shrinking timeloop.

He awoke drenched in sweat.

Ohica’s words rattled inside his skull. _The Web of Time, shaken_. It was a clear warning that he should keep well away. And yet, after a shower to scrape off the dust of the mines, he found himself hunched over the TARDIS databank, scanning fragmentary history files.

“I don’t think I could live with myself, never knowing,” he muttered. He had once pleaded the same excuse to Nyssa, his curiosity nearly destroying Traken several thousand years before she was born.

He found what he sought almost at once: a friend’s name enshrined in history like a fly caught in amber. The instant those impersonal lines of text appeared, he cursed himself for letting Ohica’s taunts sway his better judgment. He had violated his self-imposed rule never to seek after old companions. It was a cornerstone of Time Lord philosophy, that their observations caused an event to become fixed. He had long considered it a fallacy of Gallifreyan imperialism, an arrogant assumption of one’s own importance relative to the rest of the universe. Still, it was hard to shake off that sinking guilt, a pang of responsibility whenever he stumbled across a friend’s future. Flux transmuted into fact. _Heisenberg may have slept here,_ as the old Earth joke went, but it stopped being funny when one found Heisenberg’s name in the hotel register.

The Doctor read the databank entry twice, trying to feel proud of Nyssa instead of angry. “A waste. I was sure she was meant for—”

For what? For greatness? For a noble self-sacrifice, which he had dreaded all along? Some worthwhile cause?They had done so much good together. But she lacked his years. He could not expect her to give up all her remaining days to selfless causes. And anyway, why did this preclude her making a difference? The Celestenes were an enlightened society, but by no means a perfect one.

 _Nyssa Minerva, the first ruling queen in the history of the Celestial Basilica._ Not a bad epitaph, really.

The important thing was that he could stop fretting over a prophecy that he should never have taken seriously. Feeling like he had won a victory of a sort, if only over that pompous priestess of Karn, he forced himself to tackle some housekeeping he’d been putting off. It was time to jettison a niggling source of annoyance.

Nyssa’s room could go into digital storage with Susan’s suite and Romana’s library and all the rest. Picturing himself in the livery of a 17th century coachman, he archived it under the password “Cinderella.”

* * *

The throne room was a more intimate space than the aerial ballroom, if one considered a church more intimate than a cathedral. Nyssa normally shared the raised dais at one end with the High Hierophant, but this evening’s festivities called for her to spectate while Achille performed the tale of Achilles at Skyros before her appreciative gaze. In this pantomime, his mother played the part of Thetis, hiding the boy among the ladies-in-waiting of a king’s daughter. He wore a handmaiden’s disguise. It was an unusual myth to be reenacted at the Basilica, where division of the sexes was strictly demarcated by custom and costume. Then again, this Hierophant was an unusual young man. His laughing eyes winked at her from behind a maiden’s mask, a veil hiding the neat goatee beginning to grow back after the Coronation.

His dancing was virtuoso yet demure. She was amused to see he had incorporated some of her own mannerisms, adding Trakenite grace notes to the Celestenes’ mathematical progressions. Even so, his vigorous movements did not quite match the willowy forms surrounding him, their fluttering white veils streaming out on a faint breeze allowed to permeate the walls. The dancers scattered flower petals, touched palms and circled. Every minute movement was perfectly synchronised, expressing beauty through circumscribed sameness.

Into this feminine enclave strode an armed warrior clad in dusty cloak and boots. He carried a rolled carpet over his shoulder. The maidens gave way before him, opening a wide space for him to throw down his burden. It unrolled across the dance floor with a muffled clatter, disgorging bright bolts of patterned silk, jewellery, small silver bells and flutes. Two items did not fit the assemblage: a short sword and an archaic helm.

The ladies-in-waiting reached for adornments and musical instruments. Laughing, they began to dance again, bells tingling out a silvery counterpoint to their steps. But Achille reached for the helm, spinning away to shed his maiden’s mask and drop the face-plate over his eyes in one smooth motion that kept his features concealed. Then he snatched up the sword. Twirling free of his gown and flinging it aside, he began to dance in earnest, stripped nearly to the waist where a wide sash bore his solar emblem over his belly. Beads of sweat stood out on the paint that gilded his lean chest and arms. It was a fierce, martial display. Nyssa found herself captivated by the spinning leaps, the controlled wildness of his frame, the powerful steps striking the floor like hammer on anvil. Finally, with a shout, he broke from the centre of the circle, catapulted from the stage and rolled at Nyssa’s feet, where he came up on one knee and offered her the sword. Caught up in the drama, she set her right hand over the hilts in a gesture of blessing, to a roar of applause.

“A true tale,” he whispered, chest heaving. “My mother hid me among her priestesses after my eldest three brothers were slain. It was not until I took this name, danced as Achille before the whole Basilica, that the court warmed to my claim for the throne.” He shivered, and the sword wavered on his outstretched arms.

“I understand.” She released the sword. “You know, I think it might be an idea for us to visit your ‘Skyros’ now, and not wait until—”

There was an odd buzzing crack. Something whizzed past her shoulder swifter than sight. One of the dancers, crossing the spot where Achille had been just moments ago, gave a cry and crumpled. Nyssa ducked in a rush of terror and clarity, the kind she had not felt since leaving the Doctor. His sword dropped with a clang. She barely had time to fear the worst before Achille had seized her, yanked her down beside him and covered her as another bullet shattered the stylised owl’s face on her throne’s headrest.

* * *

The thundering roar of water rising up the shaft meant the Doctor only had seconds to spare. He threw himself at the last security lock. Logarithmic, of course. It was just as well he didn’t believe in fate. Otherwise, he’d think it was mocking him. Now that she was gone, he could admit to himself that Nyssa was better at solving these kinds of puzzles.

“I cannot believe,” he grumbled, punching at the keys, “you’d give up all of time and space for that prancing _popinjay…”_

All of time and space, including the rising flood that was currently engulfing an army of cyborg horrors in the undercity. He had rather underestimated the size of that reservoir.

“Ow!” Something sharp had stung his fingers. There was no time to find out what. He could see the water gobbling up the ladder two stories below. He needed a shortcut— a stroke of genius— _yes!_ The keypad chimed. The bulkhead above him opened. He lunged through it. The bulkhead crashed shut beneath his feet, sealing itself for good this time. Another ladder rose up to the promise of daylight high above him. He resumed the ascent, arms aching.

Halfway up, he finally stopped to inspect his itching fingers. A light frosting of silvery wires had encased two of them like Chinese finger puzzles. With sudden dread, he started to tear at the filaments, thought better of it, tugged down the cuff of his coat as a crude safety glove and tried again. The wires snapped and tore, drawing blood where they had bitten into his skin. Not too deep, not yet. They were tunnelling just under the epidermis. But they were growing at an alarming rate.

“That does it,” he muttered.

Booming thunder echoed up the shaft, a reminder of the enormous water pressure hammering against the seals. The ladder shook. He climbed faster. 

The itching was creeping across his palm. He could not die like this. He could not regenerate like this, either. If his body did not expel the implants, they would just keep spreading.

He would humble his pride. He needed someone skilled in bioelectronics to excise the nanofibres. Someone with small, nimble fingers and a sharp eye. Someone who would not waste time with questions or suspicion, because at this speed of growth he would soon look like those poor wretches he had just drowned. He only hoped the Basilica’s stifling protocol would grant him a royal audience before it was too late.

* * *

Adyton lunged around the thrones like a charging elephant. “ _Refugium!_ ” he barked, the emergency command to send the High Hierophant to the safety of the royal apartments.

“Belay.” Achille spoke over him, scrabbling for Nyssa’s hand.

“Just go!” she said. His key overruled the need for palm-to-palm contact, but it still required a firm grip to activate tandem transport. He clasped her wrist. The room dissolved. Shouts and cries of horror faded away.

They materialised outside his private rooms in a heap. A servant carrying linens through the antechamber nearly tripped over them. Her eyes widened at the sight of the royal couple tangled together. She emitted an apologetic squeak, curtseyed deeply, and fled before they could collect themselves.

Achille made an odd sputtering noise, halfway between an oath and laughter.

Nyssa was too indignant to notice the maid’s flustered retreat. “That was a foolish risk! If you’re injured now, we could lose everything.”

“I shall be the judge of what I cannot risk losing.” Achille raised her to her feet, looking her over. “You’re unscathed?”

“Yes, but that dancer—”

“Majesty,” Adyton said, voice shaking. He had materialised behind them. All but elbowing Nyssa aside, he set an arm around the young man’s shoulders, ushering him through the door that Nyssa opened for them. “If they’ve touched you, I swear—”

“They have not.” To Nyssa, he added, “And my mother will tend the injured until her physickers arrive.” He swallowed hard, suffering himself to be led over to a velvet chaise lounge. Sinking onto it, he delivered a sequence of commands with eyes closed. “Heavenly Gates: Basilica lockdown. Limit transmat access to royal keys and the Warder’s.” There was a chime of confirmation.

“With respect, Your Highness,” Adyton said, reaching for his helm, “your well-being is of greater importance than a mere dancer’s. Summon the High Priestess of Hygieia at once.”

“I am whole,” Achille said, waving him off. “To your duty, old friend. Unmask whoever fired those shots.”

“My liege, my duty is to guard your person, in which I must not fail a third time.” He had regained his wooden composure, but Nyssa thought she saw his eyes flicker in her direction.

Achille struck the gilded backrest with his fist. “At _once!_ ”

Adyton wavered for a raw beat, then inclined his head and vanished.

“By the ordered spheres, I do not know what has possessed him,” Achille muttered.

“Remember he loves you,” Nyssa said gently. This was not the time to remind him that that his right-hand-man harboured doubts about his queen. “It was easier for him when he was only your bodyguard. Now greater duties demand his attention, yet he’s reluctant to leave your side.”

“Yes. Of course, you are right.” The young man’s eyes softened. “ _Patrocle,_ I used to call him. Another hero from ancient times. Now, help me get this off. However did the Greeks breathe?”

“Here.” Together they wrestled with the bronze helm and set it on an end table. Underneath, his face was pale and clammy. “You _are_ injured,” she said, reproving. Were all men like this, or just the ones she came to care for? “Show me!”

He shook his head. “Nay, you know what ails me. But I am troubled. Those shots came from behind you. There was no one between you and the wall apart from Adyton.”

“Don’t even think it.”

“I would sooner countenance that all the stars are lies,” he said. “But if not he, then how?”

A chime interrupted them. Rhea burst through the double doors, as close to agitated as Nyssa had ever seen her. Nyssa gave way as the priestess moved to her son’s side and drew out her staff of office, passing it over him. Her frown deepened as she perused the symbols scrolling along the wand.

“Mother,” he said patiently, “I’m fine, as I keep assuring my guardian angels. Tell me what transpired after we took flight.”

She fixed Nyssa with a measuring look. “An offworlder weapon was discovered beneath the Queen’s throne.”

Achille stiffened. “The Queen is innocent!”

Nyssa shook her head in answer to Rhea’s tacit query. They had not spoken of her grim suggestion to fake an assassination attempt since their first private meeting. Now, it seemed, there was no need for it. They had a ready-made reason for Achille’s retreat from the public eye.

Rhea exhaled. “None shall gainsay it.” She placed her hands on their shoulders, bracing them against her next words. “But the Warder has been arrested.”

* * *

The Doctor pocketed the bloody TARDIS key with distaste. Still peeling leads out of his skin, he hurried over to the console.

That indicator light on the communications panel was blinking again. This time, he did not hesitate. Nyssa’s voice poured out from the speakers, heavily distorted by the vortex. It was a wonder she could reach him from so far away. Then again, she had done it before.

“—Achille has been shot. I’ll be accompanying him to the Healing Hives of Hygieia. Do _listen._ Hear me. Please, Doctor. Won’t you come? Or just answer back, for old times. It won’t take long. Was there any reason not to contact me?”

The Web of Time was the reason, buttressed by his self-imposed rule that he keep going forward, not loop back on his tracks to keep tabs on all those he left behind. But now he had an excuse. A dire need, in fact. He placed his hands over the telepathic circuits, mildly impressed that she had tuned the Basilica’s lattice to project the psychic frequency used by Time Lords. “Nyssa!” he said. “Tell me where and when you are.”

Nyssa’s rambling plea continued through a rising whine of static. “My desires— no, my choice to cease traveling, to settle down and stay in one place, don’t mean I would leave our friendship— _Hear me_!— or your kindness behind.”

“Nyssa!” he said again, trying to concentrate.

With a jarring pop, the signal cut out. He stared down at the console in consternation. Of course! The telepathic circuits functioned by touch, and his handprints were changing by the second. There was not a moment to lose. He would go to the Healing Hives to have his own wounds treated. Afterwards, they could flush out the assassin.

He started towards the Fast Return Switch, then stopped, realising that the morning of the Coronation was the wrong place and time. Also, Achille’s injury might be the very reason she became the Basilica’s first ruling queen. He needed to know her temporal coordinates. More importantly, he had to make sure he was not about to jeopardise her future with a careless intervention that sent history careering on a different track. He moved to the TARDIS database. Surely the assassination attempt would be on record. He skimmed her biography impatiently.

First ruling queen, yes. Her reign had lasted over a hundred years. Best known for establishing the Grove system to house the troglodytes, renamed trakenites in honour of her mother—

“No.” He willed his eyes not to see the words.

_The first ruling queen, Nyssa Minerva, was named for her mother, who died in childbirth._

He sagged against the console, oblivious to the fine metal filaments burrowing into his cheeks where he rested his face in his hands.

Quantum realities constricted to a fixed point in an instant. The Web of Time was a noose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Achille's costume in the _Achilles at Skyros_ ballet is basically [this](https://youtu.be/BMvpvDjFvHA?t=6m8s) minus the mask on a stick, plus a Greek helmet.
> 
> Chapter title: _ballets de cour_ , French Baroque “Court dance” developed by Jean-Baptiste Lully, royal composer and dancemaster for Louis XIV. _Ballets de Cour_ , performed by nobles and the king, embodied discipline, prowess, geometry and status. It often employed masks and costumes based on mythological/allegorical figures.


	4. Intermède d'Hygie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Doctor comes very near to giving up, and Nyssa's belated beach honeymoon is interrupted in exactly the way you'd expect.

_“Courage! I have shown it for years; think you I shall lose it at the moment when my sufferings are to end?” — Marie Antoinette before the guillotine_

 

The inexorable chuff of the assembly line carried Nyssa ever closer to unsterile drills and saws. The Doctor thrashed somewhere ahead of her, twisting sideways against his straps in a last-ditch effort to jam the workings with his own body. The thuds and crashes as he heaved himself against them nearly drowned out the whine of lasers. She could not see him, trussed as she was with her face scant inches from the ribbed ceiling. But she could hear his groans of pain as the first layers of cyber leads were grafted into his skin. His anguish doubled her own.

“Nyssa!”

Someone was rocking her pallet. The straps had loosened. She threw them off with a gasp and sat up.

By rights she should have slammed her face against the ceiling. Instead, she found herself snarled in a nest of cushions on a bed strung from living trees. The damp air tasted of tears… no, salt. The grind of gears faded to the thresh of breakers striking a distant reef. No halogens, no cruel lasers, only artificial candlelight illuminated a high canopy made of stretched canvas, dwindling away into the dark.

Achille was standing beside her, hand on his sword-hilt. “My lady?” He was breathing hard.

“We were on Mondas,” she said, and stopped. The Doctor’s last ragged scream still rang in her mind. “I was dreaming.”

“Rather more than that, I think,” the Hierophant said gently, concern tinged with awe. “Are you a Sibyl, then, able to scry when science fails?”

“Your Grace?” A woman called from outside. “Is there aught you require?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Calliope.” Nyssa exhaled and looked around herself, surveying shell-lanterns and tapestries, divans and vases of flowers, a discreet workstation hidden behind a mirror, a disc-shaped chair that she had commandeered for its resemblance to one in her TARDIS bedroom, and the heavy curtain thrown back that divided her half of the pavilion from Achille’s. The furniture rested on carpets spread across coral sand, not a half-mile drop. Ground underfoot. Solid, real things. They reminded her of the playhouse her parents had built for her to sleep in the garden on warm summer nights.

“Is the Lord Doctor in danger?” Achille said.

“Oh, probably,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “It’s his hobby, after all.”

It was only a dream. Even if there were a grain of prescience in it, the Doctor was far beyond help. Again she had to thrust back hurt and longing and the gnawing fear that he would be too careless with the vulnerable body she had helped nurse back to life. But that was to overrate her own significance to one who measured days in decades. He had enjoyed their fellowship, but he did not need her. He had survived for centuries, after all. “The Doctor can take care of himself.”

The Hierophant gave her a shrewd look. “As you say. Then let the sea’s music dispel nightmare’s miasma.”

She gulped air and closed her eyes again, focusing her mind on the sound of surf, not so different from the telepathic vibrations she had become accustomed to in the Basilica. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Not I. I was out walking, composing my own thoughts. But I feared some wild beast had crept into your bower.”

She was touched as always by his courtesy, but the admission brought her wide awake. She realised he was barefoot. Looking down, she saw glittering sand streaking the carpet where he had dashed across it. “You were out without an escort?”

He shrugged. “This isle is ours alone. All access save airship is barred. There are no human serpents on these atolls, my lady.”

“Nor kidnappers?” Their present whereabouts were secret. But he had after all been abducted from his mother’s private island while recovering from surgery a few years back.

“Touché.” Moving away, he took her cloak from the row of garments strung along one wall. “Come. It is a fine night, and I do not think either of us means to greet the dawn with eyes closed.”

“No,” she admitted. “Help me down.”

He offered his arm for a ladder and clasped the cloak about her to keep out the damp. Hand in hand, they slipped outside and strolled along the water’s edge. No bees stirred among the dunes edging the beach, where whispering grasses shielded tiny flowers from the wind. Nyssa’s gaze stole upward so often that she kept stumbling on the soft sand. Ironically, it was her first clear view of the stars since coming to the so-called Celestial Basilica, thanks to the heavy night-fogs that rose from the vale beneath the palace. As always, she could not help searching for Traken, although she would need a star chart to have any hope of finding it. Its sun had been snuffed out, but there were so many places in the universe where its light streamed outwards, oblivious to the death of its Source.

“I envy you,” Achille said presently. “Your light is out there, somewhere, untrammeled and free.”

“I hope so,” she said, disconcerted. He meant the Doctor, of course, but she could not help drawing a Schrödinger analogy between the one light and the other. Realising she was brooding, she shook her head and gave Achille’s hand a quick squeeze. She had not missed his own distraction, how he kept gazing towards the dark expanse of ocean dwindling away to inky black. Somewhere out there, across the channel that separated this island-studded reef from the mainland, beyond the the coastal ranges lay the Celestial Basilica. “The Council rejected your petition, then?”

“Out of consideration for our safety.” He all but growled in frustration. “I never dreamed my pretext for coming here would cost Adyton his freedom. I cannot return without raising more questions, and I cannot plead for clemency without appearing a fool. My supporters are baying for his blood. They brand him a false servant who betrayed me to put his former master on the throne. Lies, jealous lies, and I begin to fear someone means to draw me out. They will not pardon him, certainly not without trial.”

“Leaving you separated from your most capable protector,” Nyssa said, “immediately after my new security filters were presented as his idea.”

“Well spotted.” He hissed through his teeth. “I should have seen that.”

“You have good reason to be distracted.” She squeezed his hand again. The High Hierophant of the Five Revealed Truths had been forced by his society’s strictures to keep his own truths hidden. Now she was abetting his deception. What was it the Doctor had said? A petty game of genealogy? But genealogy came down to love and family, something she missed too much to see this gallant young man destroyed.

“I cannot afford to be. My elder brother and his agents play a wily game of bluff and forfeit behind my back. The Basilica’s harmony is at stake should they win.”

“Not to mention your life.”

“But they do not yet perceive that I have Minerva as well as Mars as my shield.”

“I wish I could do more.” She sighed. “Hiding here is a stopgap, but if the Doctor doesn’t come soon…”

“There is still my original solution, you know. It might be safest.”

“No!” Nyssa pulled up short. “Please, don’t even think it. Unless you’ve changed your mind about wanting the child?”

“I would sooner cut off my legs than lose this chance,” he said softly, “but your life is in hazard as much as mine. And soon it will be too late to unmake this happy accident.”

“We’ll find another way.” She began to walk faster. “I didn’t stay with you to be queen. I stayed to safeguard that future and avert a civil war. Don’t be so quick to throw hope away.”

* * *

 _Assimilation at seventy eight point one percent_. The time capsule’s central control hub emitted a series of nonsensical, inefficient beeps and whirrs, some of which seemed to have no meaning beyond aural stimulation of pleasure centres. Removing these would improve funct—

“No!” The Doctor clawed at the tendrils burrowing through his eyelids. “Music… moods… the TARDIS is a living being, not some mindless… mindless… That’s… her way of being companionable…”

 _Eighty point naught percent_. This time-ship needed repairs. Its systems would be refined.

He reached for the controls again, only to be rebuffed by a shower of sparks. The machine’s erratic defense systems were putting up a fight, or else its faults had simply hit critical mass. A warning klaxon began to sound in the distance, acres of corridors distorting the sound to that of an archaic metal gong.

A memory fragment intruded upon his mental processes. _You tricked him! He’s been processed!_

“N-Nyssa?” The Doctor’s dwindling consciousness roused itself. His visual interface was still in flux, new optic enhancements spreading over his corneas. He thought he could see her, standing on the other side of the console, a gray figure with a feathered mask obscuring her face. “Nyssa, is that you?”

 _Eighty two point six percent._ The intruder took the form of a human girl. No, not human. A friend. _Incorrect._ Former associate, irrelevant to current program.

 _Doctor? Is that you?_ Her words were an echo of a living nightmare, when they had been trapped in the heart of Mondas just before its fall. Nyssa had vowed to stay behind then, too, yearning to make a difference for a few unlucky souls even if it killed her. She had always been one step ahead of time’s jaws. _Oh, Nyssa, why did you make the choice to stay?_

 _Eighty four point nine percent_. Irrelevant. Memory fragments corrupted. Cybermen genesis (tag entry for future study) and Basilica coronation not contemporaneous events. Yet the visual artifact resisted erasure. The host brain was dredging up persistent memories just as the time-ship’s rotor was pouring out smoke in a last-ditch effort to fend off assimilation.

He could see the grey-feathered cloak fluttering lightly around her shoulders, veiling her in someone else’s mythology like the fine filaments spreading out from his cheeks. But that was nonsense. Ornamentation was valueless. Nanoskin was useful.

Her anguished voice came back to him, but he could no longer remember why. _Stop it! It’s horrible!_

 _Eighty six point one percent._ The TARDIS beeped and chittered as if scolding him. No. That, too, was delusion, pathetic fallacy. It was merely a machine, no more a person than he was. Why was it fighting him?

No more fighting. Resistance was counter-productive. The Web of Time was immutable. He straightened and removed his jacket and shirt. He began to press his fingers in a methodic pattern up his breastbone and across key nerves and muscles, pausing at each patch of skin to allow the fibres time to root and divide. The itching had stopped. The pain had stopped. Even his tears of blood had stopped, now that he had ceased digging at the wires colonising his face.

The girl’s agonised query called on a designation that was now obsolete. _Doctor?_

 _Ninety two point four percent_. Phase one modifications nearly complete. No doctor was required. Autonomous nanofibres had adapted to nonhuman physiognomy and were now accelerating. There was no cause for alarm. The ship’s alarm should be shut down. Something had triggered a debilitating emotional response earlier, but he was no longer troubled. There was no need to care.

_The Doctor would care._

Was that the girl’s voice, the ship’s voice, or his?

A stray thought danced along errant synapses like static. _Not even a proper wedding, and she was going to die in childbirth as if it were the seventeenth century and not the seventieth. What a stupid, stupid waste._

The memory-hallucination evaded every effort to kill its process. He could still hear her voice, an echo from another place and time. _Now it’s up to me!_

“No. No it… isn’t.” Faint awareness flickered in the back of his mind. “I wish you’d… leave that kind of thing… to the local constabulary.”

_Please, listen to me!_

Static blurred her words like a shroud.

Or a chrysalis _._

 _Hear me._ Short-term memory carried the imprint of a plaintive distress signal, wires of words embedded beneath the surface of the transmission, like a gestalt of music woven through living architecture… He tried to remember, something about a choice, a choice to stay… but it was gone.

Nyssa’s grief cut through the static again, the relentless memory from Mondas playing itself out. _He’s gone. The Doctor’s dead. Worse than dead. And Adric’s dead too._

“No,” he said, and he felt his hearts beating again. “You’re the one that’s dead. It’s just that history hasn’t caught up with you yet. So many people killed since I donned this face…” He reached up, felt the wires crusting his cheeks, tore at them until the blood began to flow once more.

Nyssa’s defiant words tore through the silver curtain. _I have to stop this once and for all!_

Thinking him dead, she had vowed to continue his work, her belief in him unshaken despite all his patent failures. No, that was the past. She was dead to him, in the most literal sense. She was a casualty of history. Yet the past is always present, and all moments exist, when one is…

_Time Lord._

He could not amend the past. But he had a responsibility to the future, not to let himself become a vector for a new race of techno-zombies. He had to seek aid, if not from Nyssa, then from someone else. Surely, in all his travels, he had met another doctor who could help him fight this alien invasion. Hadn’t he faced such perils before? Dimly he remembered the Swarm, an invisible enemy tunnelling through his mind and body. Must… fight… back…

The Swarm. That was it. Humans had helped him then.

“Bi-Al medical facility,” he whispered. He lurched against the console, fighting for autonomy. Again, an agitated series of beeps and alarms rebuffed his attempts to program a flight path. His hands kept trying to graft themselves to the TARDIS controls. Electricity arced in his face, burning the wires embedded there.

“Come on, old girl. It’s me. It’s _me._ The Doctor!”

Movements jerky, he drew a cricket ball from his coat pocket and began to punch in the coordinates one by one. He was running out of time.

_Ninety five point three percent._

* * *

The sleepy tranquility of the Healing Hives of Hygieia seemed half a world away from the bustle of court. Sequestered away on a sun-drenched knob of coral with gardens and a forested hill to break the skyline, surrounded by women for the first time since coming to this world, Nyssa found it easier to live here every day. She had even grown accustomed to bees alighting on clothes and hair, riding along for several steps before buzzing away. Their droning hum soothed the spirit, even if nowadays their sacred honey was used mostly for ritual purposes rather than medicinal ones.

She was increasingly tempted to accept Rhea’s invitation to become ordained.

Only a select few of Rhea’s priestesses were permitted on her son’s private island. Obeying the Hierophant’s command, they spread the rumour that he had taken blood poisoning from a gunshot wound and might need to remain there for weeks, even months. He broadcast his weekly blessing to the Basilica, but had otherwise retired from public view.

It was, he confessed to Nyssa as they strolled under the palms, his first holiday in years. Hers too, in a way. In all her travels, she had seldom spent many days at a time with her feet on solid ground, among growing things that bloomed.

Yet Achille was not at ease. He could not be, not while Adyton remained back at the Capitol in gaol. Others were already jockeying for the position of Warder, which was known to grant exclusive access to the High Hierophant above and beyond that of any titled lord. No one, not even Achille’s few friends who had known him long enough to surmise and wink at secrets, doubted Adyton’s guilt. The evidence was beyond doubt: the gun, the shots, the wall.

“Which is folly,” Achille lamented. “Apollo’s reason is all of the mind, taking no account of hearts. This much is fact: his heart is true. We must find some other means to explain bullets that fly from unseen sources.”

“I might have an answer for you soon,” Nyssa said. “It’s difficult to gather precise data from here, and I’ve had to add new security to the Pavilion’s network before I could even begin working the problem. But if I’m right, the simulation I’m running should show us how it was done.”

“Truly?” His eyes shone behind his mask. “You believe the assassin was cloaked by some form invisibility?”

“No.” She pointed to a sea-bird circling overhead. “But there are other ways to pierce the Basilica’s walls than by transmat.”

He followed her gesture quizzically. Then he burst out with the first true laugh she had heard from him in days. “Yes. Yes! Oh, it is child’s play! And if that be the case, we have the means to defend against it.” He threw his arms around her. “Why did you not tell me this sooner?”

“I may be wrong,” Nyssa warned. “It’s only a theory, not a fact.”

“It is a _truth!_ You, owl-blessed one, see through walls that others take as constants. I must summon Adyton here at once, that I may beg his forgiveness and render him recompense. My dearest _Patrocle_! Look, there’s Mother. I must give her the good news.” So saying, he dashed off across the sand towards the pair of women coming out to greet them from Rhea’s many-winged pavilion.

“Achille, wait!” Nyssa smiled and trailed after, watching his graceful lope. The sea air seemed to agree with him. That, or he was simply relieved to be unencumbered by robes of state. He had foregone most of his finery for a ruffled white shirt unbuttoned down to the cummerbund of his knee breeches. His bare feet kicked up sand as he flew. As always, his _joie de vivre_ was infectious.

The priestess accompanying Rhea hung back by the pavilion, although Achille in his excitement was speaking loudly enough to be heard up and down the beach. A sharp rebuke from Rhea brought him to his senses. He continued inaudibly, but his exuberant gestures sketched the thrones, the bullets, and the dancers so clearly that Nyssa suspected anyone versed in the Celestenes’ nonverbal communications could read the whole story.

“Our young master seems restored to his usual spirits,” the old priestess observed as Nyssa circled around the pair to join her. Lucina had been the midwife at Achille’s birth, and disregarded all changes of name and title. “You’ll be leaving soon, then?”

“I don’t know,” Nyssa said, sobering at once. “I’d hoped we could stay here a while. It’s easier to shield him here than in the Basilica.”

“Aye, but you can’t keep the lad tucked behind petticoats forever,” Lucina said sagely. “Already there’s gossip on the mainland that he’s at death’s door. Anyway, he’s too high-spirited to hide.”

“I know,” Nyssa said, turning back to watch him. “But what else can we do? If the Doctor were here, I could take him offworld until the crisis resolves itself, but as things stand—”

One minute, she saw them clearly: the slender young man in white, bare arms flung wide as he talked in animated bursts, and the stout, stoic matron whose plumed headdress fluttered in the wind as she bent close to put in a measured word.

The next minute, the world was lost in a flying wall of white coral sand as the pavilion behind Nyssa exploded.

* * *

“Ninety two point naught naught three percent eradicated.”

“Thank you, K9,” the Doctor said, voice slurred. K9? More hallucinations, probably.

“The patient is regaining consciousness, Mistress. Shall I administer supplementary anaesthetic?”

“Negative. Let’s see what the gentleman has to say for himself, shall we?”

The gentleman in question was having second thoughts about being awake. Every inch of flesh that was not numb felt raw. His muscles itched wherever those insidious fibres had spread. Stiff-backed adhesive tugged at his face, hands and chest when he tried to move. As for his vision…

He forced his eyes open. White, sterile laboratory lights blared. Two bulky shapes moved over him, black silhouettes lurching before a blinding backdrop. What were they doing to him? He tried to roll away, but fetched up against the siderails of an operating table.

“Please do not be alarmed,” K9’s voice said. “You are in hospital. Your treatment is proceeding satisfactorily.”

“Welcome back,” said one of the blocky figures, voice slightly distorted by the comm grille of a biohaz suit. “How are you feeling?”

A memory stirred. The Bi-Al medical station in Sol’s asteroid belt. The TARDIS must have completed the journey after he collapsed. “Perforated,” he rasped. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

“That would not be advisable,” the woman said. “Clear up, would you, Sergei?”

“Yes, Doctor Marius.”

“Marius?” The Doctor struggled to muster muddled synapses. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? No, no, that was an old man with feathered eyes… except that was from an infection… but why does K9 have legs?” K9’s blocky head was the one familiar thing in his field of vision. The robot dog was sitting on its haunches on a pile of plastic crates beside the operating table. Squinting, he could see its sensor antenna deployed over his forehead.

The surgeon snorted. “Father’s prototype couldn’t handle irregular terrain. I gather this isn’t the first time you’ve tumbled across our doorstep. What’s your name?”

“The Doctor.” It felt good to say it. It was the only thing that felt good right now.

“So K9 was right after all. He recognised you. Otherwise he might have shot you as a hostile.”

“Thank you, K9,” the Doctor said weakly.

The robot wagged its tail in an affectation he knew so well that he almost laughed, despite swollen lips. He didn’t altogether approve of the articulated limbs, but he supposed the inventor’s daughter was entitled to make modifications.

She passed a hand-sensor over his hearts, grunting at the readout. “Your appearance doesn’t match our records. But your vascular system does.”

“Status?” he asked. It was difficult to form words, with cheeks and mouth deadened by analgesics. The painkillers were not quite sufficient, but the stinging pain of exposed subcutaneous tissue told him that his face was reasonably intact. “What’s… what’s my condition?”

“K9?” she prodded.

“Invasive nanofibre network deactivated. All foreign filaments removed save those embedded in prefrontal cortex and secondary medulla. Epidermal and dermal regrowth projected to be complete within nine point naught two hours.”

“We’re just waiting for our chief neurosurgeon to come off her rest-shift, then we’ll see about removing the filaments in your brain.”

“Ah, that won’t be necessary, thanks all the same,” he said, unenthusiastic at the prospect of humans digging around in his dendrites. He had not been thinking clearly when he jumped to this time period. The human race had only just made the leap to nearby star systems, and their xenomedical expertise was still in its infancy. During his previous visit, Doctor Marius senior had done his best, but it had really been Leela’s antibodies that had helped him beat back the infection. He could use a dose of her fighting spirit right about now. “My phagocytes can tackle the fibres now that you’ve rendered them inert. It’ll be no trouble excreting them from my tear ducts.” Quite a lot of trouble, in fact, and the process was uncomfortably ticklish, but it was preferable to brain surgery.

“How long will that take?” Dr. Marius said, dubious. “I’m not in the habit of making patients perform their own extractions.”

“Twenty-two point sixteen hours, Mistress,” K9 said. “Rest, intravenous nutrition and hydration are indicated to expedite natural healing processes.”

“There you are. You’ve been enormously helpful, Doctor Marius, and I’m sure I owe you my life. But I can take it from here. If you can spare me a bed for a day or two, I’ll be right as rain.” His winning smile turned into a wince.

“Oh, very well. Monitor him closely, K9. If those nano-fragments show the least sign of reactivating, alert me immediately and reinitiate quarantine lockdown.” She waggled a gloved finger. “You tried to bond yourself to our ventilation system, Doctor. If K9 hadn’t been able to navigate the ductwork to zap you, we’d all be wetware by now.”

“Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry for all the bother.”

“No problem. It’s an interesting change of pace from mopping up asteroid mining accidents. Need anything else?”

“I don’t suppose you could stretch the definition of hydration to include a cup of tea?”

She arched an eyebrow, glancing at the IV drip. “Sergei, when you’ve finished, see if you can wrestle up an infused hot drink and a straw for our patient.”

“Yes, Doctor Marius.”

“So, Doctor. If you’re really who you say you are, shouldn’t you have a companion with you?”

“Yes… no.” In a rush of pain, he remembered what the nanofibres had almost allowed him to forget. A pointless end for a life that promised more, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. Certainly not while half flayed and bedridden. But even once he had recovered, he could not intervene. He had no choice but to let another friend die. “No, I don’t suppose I should.”

* * *

The Hierophant paced with hand on sword-hilt, oblivious to curious bystanders. A temporary forcefield fenced off a large dome-shaped pavilion standing a little apart from the rest. In light of the smoke still rising from the neighboring island above the treetops, it was a hopelessly inadequate barrier. His mother’s earthly domain had seemed an ideal sanctuary, but he had brought the perils of Olympus with him.

“Surely the physickers have finished by now,” he said to Lucina keeping vigil beside him. “I want to see her!”

“Patience, Your Highness,” the old woman said. “It’s forbidden for men to view female patients, especially when they’re unconscious.”

He stopped pacing and folded his arms. “She would not _be_ unconscious had I not come here! This is intolerable! Never in five thousand years of celestial harmony has anyone dared indiscriminate violence—” He broke off, seeing the beaded curtain at the entrance thrown back as a priestess exited and sped across the flagstones towards them.

“Your All-Holiness,” the healer said, dropping nearly to the ground in graceful obeisance. “Her Serene Grace is out of danger and alert. If it please you, she calls upon you to attend her.”

“By all means,” he said, all but bowling over the woman in his haste. He hurried through the outer ventricles of the pavilion, where physickers were wheeling away equipment. They paused to bow with grave respect. He rose to _elevé_ in acknowledgement, but his attention was already on the path ahead. Passsing through a series of UV curtains, he reached at last a white-walled inner chamber. There a stout figure lay propped up in bed, swathed in bandages and stabiliser patches.

Nyssa, seated on a stool drawn up at Rhea’s bedside, snatched up her mask from a nearby table. Then she recognised his gait, rose and turned to greet him. “She’s going to be all right,” she said. “Her spine was bruised, but not severed. There’s every reason to think she’ll make a full recovery.”

Drooping with relief, Achille peeled his own mask off and threw it down where hers had lain. He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek.

“ _Pia Mater._ This is damnable. How do you feel?”

“How d’you think?” she said, her voice a weak croak. “Like… lost a fight with …gravitic generator. Never mind. The Queen and I… conferring.” She waved towards the midwife who had followed him into the room. “Lucina, banish eavesdroppers. But… stay. This… for your ears, too.”

The old woman bobbed in a creaky curtsey and thrust her head through the heavy drapes covering the doorway. “Out,” she bawled. “Out, out, all of you. The Holy Mother commands it. Shoo!”

Nyssa made to join Lucina in guarding the door, but Achille set a hand on her shoulder. “Abide, my lady. Forgive my mean manners. I should have inquired after your own hurts.”

“I’m fine. The break’s almost healed already.” She wriggled her fingers outside her sling to demonstrate. Looking him over, she saw that Achille had not come out of the explosion unscathed either, but his own abrasions and bruises were largely superficial. “Your Highness, listen. I’ve found the proof you need to clear Adyton’s name.”

His face transformed like the sun breaking through. “Truly?”

“Without a doubt. I was able to cross-reference the transmat records to prove his coordinates didn’t match any of the bullets’ trajectories. Those shots came from the other side of the wall. The Lattice is programmed to let birds through, so it won’t stop bullets. The gunman simply needed a spatial knowledge of the throne room and a way to smuggle himself into the adjacent chamber.”

He hugged her in a loose but heartfelt embrace. “The dawn came late today, but now the clouds are clearing.”

“There’s something else,” she said. “I think they were aiming for your expected location, if you hadn’t diverged from the dance’s choreography.”

“That ridiculous tableau… only reason… I still have two sons,” Rhea grumbled. “Otherwise… chaos. Civil war. Kingslayer… anointed Apollo.”

“We’ll thwart them yet, Mother, if Adyton is free to watch over us.”

“Problem,” Rhea said. “He’s not your…. bodyservant. No longer. _If_ reinstated… and we must convince…”

“Ballistics is simple geometry,” Nyssa pointed out. “Your people prize mathematical truth, don’t they?”

Rhea nodded impatiently. “Warder of Basilica not… Hygieia. He can’t….” She grimaced. “Nyssa, child, tell him.”

Nyssa dipped her head. “Even if he’s free, Sir Adyton can’t watch over us from afar. The Warder of the Heavenly Gates cannot leave his post, even to guard your person. Much as I hate to abandon the peace of these islands, I honestly think we’ll be safer back in the Basilica. With the new filters, we should be able to block both unauthorised transmat access and fast-moving projectiles.” She smiled wistfully. “At some cost to the birds, I’m afraid, but the Hierophant’s life is more important.”

“But we _cannot_ return,” he said in anguished frustration. “We didn’t just come here for my safety, but for the sake of an Apollo yet unborn.”

The old woman piped up from the doorway. “What’s that, lad?”

“Lucina,” Rhea said. “Return with them… Basilica. You’re needed.”

Lucina was peering at them with bird-bright eyes. “ _Oho._ Is that what brought you scurrying back to the Hives? Well, why didn’t you say so earlier? Absolutely, Your Grace. It’d be an honour.”

“But—” Achille began.

The midwife pointed a bony finger at him. “I welcomed you into the world, young master, and I mean to be there to catch the next heir to pop out.”

“Your Highness.” Nyssa turned her mask over and over in her lap, rubbing a thumb across the plain backing of stiff leather. “Remember what you told me about being Achilles at Skyros?”

“That was a sham, a farce, a…” His scowl loosened into sheer disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“Never more so,” she said. “I’m sorry. I realise this is a difficult thing to ask of you. But without the Doctor’s timely intervention, that may be our only chance to see this through.”

“Difficult? Ah, Lady, if you suggested I dance upon hot coals, I would trust your counsel and leap to it like a gazelle. Yet this…” He fell silent for some while, mulling it over. “And yet I see no other path. But then who would be my—?”

She kept looking at him.

“Oh, my brave Minerva,” he said. “I could not allow it. Even if it were possible, the risk to you would be appalling.”

“Only way… my son.” Rhea’s usually imperious tones were weary. “Nyssa… watch over him.”

“I will,” she promised. “Now rest. Let the healers heal you. We could ask for no better midwife than yours, Holy Mother, but I’ll feel better if you’re there, too.”

Rhea nodded, eyes already closing. The Hierophant, gazing at his mother’s white face, looked shaken. He clung to her hand for a long while, stroking it. At last, when she was sleeping peacefully, he turned back to his queen.

“Will you be all right?” Nyssa said in a low voice.

“That you understand and share the burden will make it bearable,” he said. His eyes danced, rueful and merry. “So, since we have cast ourselves together under the same yoke, let us make sport of it. Perhaps someday our _pas de deux_ will be worthy of song.”

* * *

“Well, Doctor Marius, I can’t thank you enough.” The Doctor started to hold out his right hand, smiled awkwardly, and extended his left. The regenerated nerves were still rather sensitive.

“I wish you’d consider staying longer,” she said with a firm shake. “At least return for a follow-up. We’ve never had a case like yours before, and I’d like to keep an eye on my handiwork.” She grinned. “If nothing else, I need the results for my write-up.”

“Perhaps I can pop by after I’ve…” he glanced longingly at the TARDIS, “checked on a few… things.”

“Doctor Marius?” The receptionist behind a nearby desk cleared her throat. She had not been well-pleased to have her waiting room occupied by a large blue box, but she was determined to follow proper procedures. “Forgive me, but I haven’t received the patient’s discharge papers. Or payment?”

The Doctor smiled. “Oh, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

“Never mind, Matilda,” Marius said. “The biodata we’ve collected on the Doctor’s physiology is going to revolutionise the field of tissue regrowth. Not to mention the upgrades he’s made to our K9 unit.” She grinned. “I think a Rosalind Franklin trophy would add a certain cachet to Main Reception, don’t you?”

“Well…”

“My authorisation, Matilda. Don’t worry about it. Doctor?”

The Doctor had dropped to one knee to say farewell to a cousin of an old friend. “Well, goodbye, K9. Thanks again for your help. I must say I’m impressed with the latest model. Don’t forget what I told you about Ribot’s Law, hmm?”

K9’s mechanical ears began to whirr back and forth. “Affirmative, Master.”

“Good dog.” He patted K9’s head jovially and straightened, taking his hat out of his pocket and setting it on his head. “Well, that’s that. I apologise for the inconvenience. Must dash.” Beaming, he hurried over to the TARDIS, flung open the door, and all but bolted inside. The wheezing groan of dematerialisation reverberated off the plasteel walls as the unlikely time capsule vanished.

Dr Marius shook her head. “Father always said he was a madman. K9, download all biodata from the Doctor to my terminal; I wanted to get started writing up this paper.”

“Negative, Mistress.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No data to retrieve.”

She stared. And then she swore. Loudly.

“Er, Dr Marius?” The receptionist had turned back to her workstation. “The Ceres Mining Corps is sending over a shuttle. Thrillseekers bypassed security and tried to scale Ahura Mons. Severe iceburns.”

The woman gave a rueful laugh. “Back to ordinary routine, eh, Doctor? Come along, K9.”

* * *

Gaining the vortex like a drowning man surfacing, the Doctor set the TARDIS in hover mode until he could look her over.

So, that was that. A satisfactory ending to an adventure that had almost ended in disaster. Seeing K9 had given him a pleasant kick of nostalgia. K9! Now there was a companion he’d never needed to worry about. If K9 broke, he could just be patched up again.

Fending off darker thoughts, the Doctor was delighted to find the ship’s repair systems had been hard at work. He clucked and brooded over the console for an hour or two, making certain that none of the nanofibres had wormed their way into her systems. Thankfully, every diagnostic showed her clean and clear, apart from a few smoky smudges that he wiped from the console with gentle care. Best of all, the TARDIS responded to his touch again. Her simple bleeps and clicks were a warm, enfolding welcome. Life was back to normal. All of time and space lay open to his whim.

He started to key in a destination.

Then he stopped.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, the Doctor hadn’t the foggiest idea where to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: "Intermission of Hygieia." _Intermèdes_ were theatrical performances between acts in French baroque ballet. Hygieia is the Greek goddess of healing.


	5. Entreé Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyssa and the Hierophant return to the Basilica to face whatever danger lurks in the shadows, while the Doctor must find his way out of them.

_“To know how to dissemble is the knowledge of kings.” —  Cardinal Richelieu_

 

The unheralded return of the royal airship _Le Soleil_ threw the Basilica’s equilibrium into a measured uproar. Protocol and schedules were tossed aside from the moment the Hierophant touched down. He set the court on its ear immediately with an impromptu audience on the docking pad to exonerate the Warder. The King reported his discovery of bullets that passed through walls, spoke stern words about “traitors who would exploit the grace granted heaven’s feathered emissaries for the mortal sin of murder,”and officially cleared his Warder of false slander. The Council would have to ratify his judgment, but the thing was done. Sir Adyton was teleported directly from his cell to kneel at his monarch’s feet and kiss his ring in reaffirmation of his oath. The Hierophant warned his courtiers to expect no fixed royal schedule until the Warder apprehended whoever was monitoring his movements with murderous intent. Then he swept up the reinstated head of security in his train and marched off to the royal apartments.

The Queen followed, retiring to her own private suite to recover from a long flight. Sharp-eyed servants noted that Lucina, the royal midwife, had not only accompanied her from the Healing Hives, but had remained cloistered with her after the rest of them were dismissed. Gossip began to fly from the servants’ floors to the kitchens to the barracks, setting the whole lattice of the Basilica abuzz with cheerful expectancy. However, the only official word from the royal wing that day was to announce a fête in three days’ time in honour of the Dowager Queen, with a special service to pray for her speedy recovery.

Nyssa had spent an anxious hour with Lucina poring over the Basilica’s medical files. Pregnancy among the Celestenes was close enough to Trakenite, but they were now embarking on uncharted waters, both biological and religious. The Queen might insist that childbirth among her people was a deeply personal and private affair, but not all Celestenes would be satisfied by an offworlder flaunting sacred tradition. The birth of a new Apollo demanded witnesses, ceremonies to consecrate the blessed heir, all the moreso while a disinherited prince skulked in the shadows. But there could be no witnesses. A genetic test would put the child’s royal blood beyond doubt, but it might raise even more questions.

“Let the menfolk squabble over the pedigree later,” the midwife counselled. “Our task’s to see the babe into the world. Now, in a breech birth…”

They were hip deep in umbilical cords and the Celestenes’ double placenta when a chime sounded from the wall mirror which doubled as a workstation. The Queen blushed and hastily donned her mask. “I am summoned. Thank you, Lucina. You should see about arranging your own quarters. Ask Calliope if one of the guest suites can be spared.”

“Well, that’s me moved up the ladder a bit.” The midwife rose placidly to her feet. “Much obliged, Your Grace.” With an arthritic curtsey, she followed the Queen out of her bedchamber and slipped away. Nyssa had taken only two steps into her dressing room when her attendants swarmed around her, laying claim to her once more by arraying her in her robes of office.

They would have to be weaned from this custom, but for now, she meekly submitted to their care. Tomorrow she needed to review the house servant rolls with a fine-toothed comb, taking into account Rhea’s blunt recommendations. Some might require tactful reassignment.

Some ten minutes later, a page ushered her into the King’s antechamber. She thanked him and passed from the outer room through a rayed archway of opaque mist into the Hierophant’s private sitting room. There she was relieved to see Achille fully clothed and draped with careless grace across the arms of his favourite chair. The Warder, whose lacquered armour hung a trifle more loosely off his gaunt frame, stood at attention behind his master as if he had never been torn from his post. The Hierophant rose to take her hand and lead her to a matching velvet chair while Adyton poured drinks.

“Thank you, Warder,” she said, raising the glass to him and meeting his eyes gravely before taking a sip.

“Your Majesty.” He had not used that particular appellation for her until now. His stiff moustache twitched as the severe face appeared to undergo some kind of inner contortion. “All gratitude should be on my side, as well as heartfelt apology. I understand that the calculations which proved my innocence were yours.”

She smiled. “The facts spoke for themselves. You would never harm the Hierophant, and those who intended him harm needed you out of the way. Therefore, it was simply a matter of determining how the illusion was staged. I take it we still cannot prove who planted that weapon?”

“No, Your Majesty.” His face darkened.

“Although there is no longer much doubt,” said the King.“I fear for the harmony of the Basilica, should this truth come out.”

“Let truth attend to itself, Your Highness.”

The eyes behind the gilded mask clouded. “A noble sentiment, fair one. Sometimes I think I should follow it entire, for how else can I justly hold Apollo’s seat?”

“Majesty,” Adyton said, pained. “You do not lie.”

“Lies of omission, _Patrocle,_ are lies of intent if not fact. And now I ask this virtuous lady to compound the sin with true deception.”

“To preserve life and keep a killer from the throne,” she said, “which would be a greater evil.” There were many kinds of Melkurs, some more petty than the monster who had taken her father’s place. “Someday your people will be ready for the truth. Until then, there is no reason that you should suffer for it. And so… my Lord Warder, I presume you’ve been apprised of our plan?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He frowned. “I cannot say I approve of it. Should you fail your part—”

“Adyton!” the Hierophant said sharply.

“No, he’s right,” she said. “Sir Adyton, I’ll need all your experience and guidance, or I haven’t a hope of pulling this off. Can I count on your support? The High Hierophant depends upon us both. And there is a new life in the balance that we three must guard together.”

The Warder’s face was, as ever, a closed mask, for all that he wore none. But the long jowls lifted slightly in a tremulous smile. It was the first glimpse she’d seen of the older man’s true feelings for his master. Four decades separated them, but then, the Celestenes like Trakenites were long-lived, making such a gap seem relatively smaller. She suspected their imbalance of years and of power had allowed them to find an unlikely homeostasis.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Adyton said. “You have my word. I shall be your shield. I hope you’ll find my service satisfactory.”

“I already do,” she said. “Now. Where do we begin?”

The Hierophant laughed and leapt to his feet. He struck a dashing pose. “With dance, of course. That is how I won the people over, and now you must do the same. _Patrocle?_ You will judge us, step for step. Try not to be too partial.”

* * *

The Doctor was in his element again.

This was what life was about, stripped of politics, personal stakes, second thoughts and regrets: a stand of ancient trees crowning the hill beyond the oval, the smell of frost-clipped grass, a lump of hide and cork, and a strong right arm. Autumn in Stockbridge was eternal, yet transitory. Winter had come early this year, but the Doctor barely noticed the nip in the air, focused as he was on trajectories, mechanics, the poetry of bowling. A clean run-up. A leap. His hand whipped out. The red ball spun down, arcing swift and sure towards the stumps—

The bat connected with a resounding crack. A joyful cry of _Six!_ went up as the shot launched like a rocket, bouncing off the roof of the pavilion. He turned and stared after it until a guffaw from a passing batsman drew his mind back to fielding. Two uninspired balls later, old Linford beckoned him to the bench and thrust a mug of hot cider into his hands when he arrived.

“Drink up, Doctor,” he said. “Looks like you need a little fire in your belly.” His craggy face cracked into a grin. “Don’t worry, man, it’s not the hard stuff. I know you.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” He took a sip of the pungent drink and tried not to grimace. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the game I promised you.”

“No, it ain’t,” the retired captain said gruffly. “What’s come over you?”

“That’s a little hard to explain,” he said, glancing down and flexing his fingers. His callouses had returned, but the skin was still pinker, newer than it used to be.

Linford snorted. “You’re gettin’ older, is what it is. You don’t look no different, but that painting in your attic wants dustin’. Time’s catching you up.”

The Doctor turned his attention back to the match and winced as the batsmen exchanged places again. “Nonsense,” he said. “It was just a bad innings. I’ll make it up to you.” He couldn’t seem to stop himself from making rash promises.

“I know you will, lad. You’ve come a long way since start o’ season.” Linford snorted to himself. “Wherever you came from. Don’t know why you can’t just settle down here. Two lives, that can’t be healthy for a man.”

“No.” The Doctor chuckled weakly at that. “Let alone five.”

“Oho, is that it? Lawd almighty. Five? No wonder you’re tuckered out.” Linford slapped his knee and turned back to the match. The game was out of reach, but Stockbridge’s players were putting a brave face on it. “And you so lily-white and all. Not my place to judge, but I wouldn’t be in your shoes if your birds ever get wind o’ one another.”

The Doctor set his mug down with an annoyed clunk. “No, Daniel, that’s not it. Not even remotely. Shouldn’t you be cheering the team on, raising their spirits?”

“Right you are.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed to the new bowler. “Oi. Arthur. Light’s goin’. No point in screwin’ your arm off. Hot cider and ale’s a-waitin’.” He cocked an eye at the Doctor and grinned. “That’s the spirits they need. Better luck next time, eh?”

But the enigmatic Doctor was staring off across the misty ground, towards the blaze of autumn colours on the far hill. In a low, thoughtful voice, as if groping for a memory, he began to chant.

_“Thy eternal summer shall not fade,_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,_

_Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,_

_So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”_

“There now, I said that popper yesterday knocked the wits from your pate,” said Linford. Then he sobered. “Wells Wood? That pretty little friend of yours used to wander about over there, didn’t she? Reg’lar wood sprite, she was.” He poured a mug of ale and pushed it towards him along the bench. “Has something happened to her?”

“No.” The Doctor sighed. Even if that time bubble around Stockbridge still existed in some other reality, the Lady who dwelt within its bounds was no longer the Nyssa he knew. Better dead than twisted into a gross violation of herself. No, good old Will had the right of it. The Doctor was no bard, to memorialise a friend in immortal words, but he could store memories longer than those embalmed in Shakespeare’s sonnets. “Not yet.”

Sighing, he wrenched his attention back to the pitch, just in time to see his team take the last wicket in something of an anticlimax. The scorekeeper wasted no time in zeroing the scoreboard for the next day. The players began to trickle from the field.

* * *

“….the output is phenomenal,” enthused the Minister of Energy, standing in the Council Chamber with blueprints clutched reverently to his breast. “And the new storage cells show a twelvefold gain in capacity. When we have converted all the Basilica’s existing batteries to the new design and cleared the old away, the greater part of the under-galleries will stand empty, ready for whatever use we may devise.”

“This is excellent news,” said the Hierophant. “Give your artificers our royal commendation. I shall order a bonus of three months’ pay delivered to them from our treasury. For our Celestial Basilica spans the heavens only through the alchemy of their engineering.”

Privately, Nyssa had to suppress a smile. The oratory of the Basilica was even more flowery than Traken court language. Just as ballet was an elaborate way to cross a room, ornamented speech was another of the Celestenes’ intangible luxuries. Its study had been a challenging diversion during these last few months.

Acheron, now seated among the other Councillors, cleared his throat. “Some thanks are also due, I understand, to Her Serene Grace, who furnished the design.”

“Indeed.” The Hierophant exchanged a quick smile with the Queen, unobtrusive but attentive. “Our alliance is fruitful.”

Merry laughter rang around the table. Beneath owl-mask and veil, the Queen’s throat coloured pink.

“For which the Basilica rings with notes of jubilation from root to sky,” Acheron said warmly. “Indeed, it is small wonder that you wished to share the proof of this miracle before the Council so swift on the heels of its announcement. Nonetheless— forgive me, Your All-Holiness— among all these other innovations, I marvel that Her Grace is once again present at Council, particularly in light of her… blessed state.”

“While we are the targets of forces unknown,” the Hierophant said grimly, “I will not have my consort leave my sight.”

“Your vigilance is to your credit, _Sire,_ ” Acheron said, his slight emphasis on the word drawing another round of smiles, “Although not perhaps to the Warder’s.”

Adyton, guarding the doors, surveyed the Councillors with an impassive glower. His gaze paused for a beat as he swept past the thrones elevated high above him at the far end of the hall.

Nyssa felt a pang of irritation on his behalf. But for now, until they had solid evidence of Acheron’s involvement in any plot, they must simply parry his verbal barbs and stay alert.

“As your concern for the royal line redounds to yours, noble Uncle. And yet your misjudgment but recently deprived us of Adyton’s services and fettered him, my right hand. Else he might have tracked fresh clues to the true culprit. But we’ll have the villain yet.”

“Be it so.” Acheron steepled his hands upon the table and glanced around. “I think I speak for all your Councillors, who wish a speedy conclusion to this disharmony. May we know how far the investigation has proceeded?”

“You may.” The Hierophant beckoned to Adyton. “Come away from your post, Warder, and brief the Council on the state of our defenses.”

“Majesty.” He stepped forward and bowed deeply to the semicircle of nobles seated above him. “The Heavenly Gates are reforged as a fine-tooth web of steel. We have tested the transmat beams ’gainst guardsmen kitted with false keys or a simulacrum of the enemy’s weapon. None passed. Even the birds find no entry to our halls.”

“Which grieves my Queen.” The Hierophant smiled sadly. “But we must bear this discourtesy to our feathered lodgers for a time. And the weapon?”

“The barrel of the gun found behind Minerva’s throne showed no residue such as might be expected from an explosives-propelled projectile.”

“You are saying it was never fired?”

“It seems not. However, it did not come there by chance.” He raised his eyes to meet the King’s respectfully. “Both it and the fragments of the concussive device used at the Hives of Hygieia are demonstrably of alien origin. An excess of titanium-48 in their alloy points to the Sikyon system.”

The Hierophant nodded. “Where once my brother sought asylum, after my father banished him.”

Acheron raised an eyebrow. “But the Sikyoni rejected his petition, as Your All-Holiness should recall. Our trade was too valuable for them to exchange our goodwill for his. Meanwhile—” he paused. “I beg your pardon, Your Holiness. I speak out of turn.”

“As is ever your wont, Uncle, but speak on.”

The Council had gone quiet, some visibly holding their breaths. None could fail to note how the ex-regent had come down in the hierarchy, leaving the Hierophant and his consort floating in isolated state at the high end of the hall. Some also noted a subtle change in their youthful monarch. His gallant affability had caused many to discount him as a lightweight. Now the gravity that had always lain beneath was plain to see.

“I wondered,” Acheron said, “whether the Lord Doctor had yet responded to the Queen’s summons.”

The Hierophant stiffened. There was a long pause during which the councillors shifted and whispered. This royal rumour would soon wend its way up and down the Basilica. “The private correspondence between Her Serene Grace and her former guardian is not Council business.”

“Indeed not, and I humbly beg Her Grace’s pardon.” He pushed back his chair and rose to make an obeisance, folding low over one bended knee. “I ask only in connection with the present investigation. For assuredly the Time Lord’s service to your person in this matter has been invaluable in the past. Therefore his absence now is to be lamented.”

“The Lord Doctor is our ally, not our subject, and is free to come and go as he pleases. The Basilica is blessed with good fortune and well-defended. Other worlds in graver peril need him more.”

The Queen sat still as stone through all of this, hands folded across a lap somewhat more ample than when they returned from the islands. Only a slightly clenched jaw betrayed any hint of irritation.

“That may be so,” said Acheron, “but his marked silence suggests that alliance has cooled. It might be well to ascertain whether the Lord Doctor has himself lately come to Sikyon.”

“The Doctor would never—!” A discreet cough from the Queen cut off the Hierophant’s retort. “Ah, Uncle, again you seek to shield all your sister-sons alike, blind to probabilities. I forgive you. But you must cease flailing about for scapegoats. It is not my right hand you strike at this time, but the Queen’s. Leave the Lord Doctor out of your reckoning, for he is far away. Now, let us turn to happier matters. We have heard good news from the Healing Hives of Hygieia. Our Holy Mother is mending fast…”

* * *

This, too, was back to normal: the Doctor was running for his life.

The woman running beside him had longer legs than Nyssa’s, a useful asset in companions. And he could not deny that her military training had come in handy.

Trapped inside an interrogation cell while the warship disintegrated around him would have been an unpleasant way to die. She had spared him from that fate, and he was determined to return the favour. From the way the deck was shuddering, he guessed that they did not have much time. The planet’s cargo transports were continuing their desperate kamikaze defense. One had already scored a critical hit.

The Doctor abhorred invasion of every kind, but picking on a civilisation that was barely into its first century of spaceflight was in particularly poor taste. What must they think of the rest of the galaxy?

Thankfully, Marta had been able to set aside first impressions. She made an abrupt turn and flung herself behind a strut flanking the damaged bulkhead they had just hurtled through. The squat form of a Sontaran, lightly charred and fuming with rage, appeared in the jagged opening.

“Doct-ooor!” A blaster rifle swung towards him.

“Ah. Hello there,” he said, raising his hands promptly. “You seem to be having a spot of bother with your engines. If you’d like me to have a look at them, I’d be happy to—”

He winced at the sickening crunch of a utility knife driven into the probic vent at the back of the Sontaran’s gorget. His would-be executioner gave a gurgling snarl and dropped like the sack of potatoes he somewhat resembled. _No more Janus thorns,_ the Doctor thought ruefully, recalling his struggles to moderate Leela’s bloodthirsty upbringing the last time he had befriended a warrior.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said mildly. “I don’t suppose you could find a less lethal means to dispatch them?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “If you’re a pacifist, what the bloody hell are you doing in a war zone?”

“I often ask myself that question,” he mused, peering through the smoky opening to see if any more of their pursuers had survived the detonation of the starboard engine. “Speaking of war zones, I estimate we have less than three minutes to find a way off this ship before it explodes.” Indeed, the whine of the remaining engine was audible now even two decks away. “I do wish they’d follow my advice and evacuate.”

“Well, I will,” the lieutenant said, massaging her wrenched shoulder after retrieving her knife with a jerk. “Where did you say this escape pod of yours was?”

“Not mine, exactly,” he said, hurrying to the security keypad sealing the next bulkhead. “It’s the drop ship they were preparing for delivery of the ozone-depletion agent into your stratosphere. I managed to detach the tanks before they apprehended me, so with any luck—”

The door opened, just as an angry bellow echoed up the corridor behind them. “Doc-tooooor!”

They glanced at one another and ran.

* * *

Adyton brought his mailed fist down on the table, causing the display embedded in its surface to waver.

Nyssa looked up from the anthology of kinesthetic poetry she was tabbing through. “Another sensor ghost?” She refrained from coming over to look. Security was the Warder’s responsibility, not hers.

“Yes, Majesty,” he said, recomposing himself and looking past her. After all this time, he was still not entirely comfortable with her presence in Achille’s private chambers. “But again, my guards found no trace of an intruder. There was a servant in an adjacent storeroom, but he was questioned closely and released.”

Achille, who had been dozing in his armchair by a dully glowing sculpture which served as a hearth, peeled open an eye. “Could he be the same man that tripped your scans before, in disguise?”

“No, Your Majesty. This was an elderly man, a domestic. And there seems to be no connection between him and the Laconian. Nor any weapon, energy source, or article of offworlder make about him.”

“The sensors could be picking up some particle shed by the intruder,” Nyssa said. “Filings from a bullet-casing, perhaps, or dust from his clothes.”

“Assuming our phantom guest truly exists,” Achille said. “With all your vigilance, I begin to wonder if the bombing of the Healing Hives was not his last throw. The Heavenly Gates are too well-fortified now.”

“The Celestial Basilica is vast, Your Highness,” Adyton reminded him, pained. “My vigilance is of limited worth, since I cannot see nor send my hounds to every corner.”

“And so long as he refrains from using the transmat network or carrying a charged energy weapon, he can avoid a full scan,” said Nyssa.

“Yes.” Achille sank back into his chair and smiled. “Be that as it may. Let him gnaw the cheese-rinds and skulk behind the scullery as he will. This mouse will not touch us, while Sir Adyton’s strong right arm is close at hand.”

“We cannot screen for every kind of ranged weapon,” Adyton pointed out.

Nyssa set down her vidbook and rose, leaving the warmth that radiated from the hearth-tree. She paced across the room with arms wrapped around herself. Everything her eye fell upon was beautiful: the lanterns, the flowering plants, the embroidered tapestries, the tiled stone floor, and the sweeping bow windows that looked out over luminous spires softened by swirls of moonlit cloud. Such opulence and beauty were hollow luxuries, while death lurked in the wainscoting. “Your Highness,” she said at last. “Sir Adyton. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I fear it’s time to try and draw him out.”

“The answer is still no.” Achille pushed himself half out of his chair and twisted towards her. “I will not allow you to hazard yourself any more than you already have on my behalf. Not though the Basilica’s harmony depended upon it. We cannot even be certain he is here. Regardless, the risk is not yours to take. Remember, if either of us is discovered, all is lost.”

“But—” 

“No.” His gaze was stern. “I value your counsel a great deal, my Minerva, and I concede that your mind if not your flesh has the fortitude of a man’s. But I will not be gainsaid in this. Devise another stratagem.”

Nyssa faced him with a flash of irritation. “Remember I’m flesh and blood, Your Highness, not a war goddess. Tactics I defer to those more qualified.” She nodded to the Warder. “All I know is that it’s better to face a threat than postpone it and hope for the best.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve received any sign from the Lord Doctor?” said Achille.

“No.” She came to a halt beside his chair. As she watched, the hearth-tree changed from dull red to purple, limbs twisting like some slow-moving, sentient fungus. There were so many wonders here, yet the Celestenes took most of them for granted. The Doctor had shared and cultivated her delight in such marvels. His absence ached, but there was no help for it. All she could do was carry on without him. “And I’m afraid to try again, since Acheron seems to be listening in somehow.”

“In all our contrivances, Lady,” Achille said, reaching out to rest a hand against her back, “we have left one thing out of reckoning: your fate. If your champion does not come, we face a quandary. What will you do once the child is born? Will you not now consent to be my Queen for life and not only for the duration of our conspiracy?”

Nyssa bit her lip, feeling the eyes of the Warder upon her again, no longer wary but still guarded. “I am… tempted,” she admitted. “I doubt I’ll find a better world than this, with Traken gone.”

“So, then!” Achille lowered his voice. “As you know, my servants’ discretion can be trusted. Or if someday it’s rumoured that the Queen had taken a lover, well, it would hardly be unprecedented.”

Nyssa blushed. “That… isn’t quite the family arrangement I had in mind,” she said. “I’m honoured, Achille, truly. But I’m still inclined to slip away discreetly and return to the stars. It’s what I would have done with the Doctor, after all.” Out there, she thought, she might have a chance of finding him someday. Or if not, she would find a world that needed her skills more.

“Then I shall mourn my Minerva in deed, not only in seeming,” Achille said. “But I must not begrudge you your freedom, when you have already sacrificed so much for mine.” Then he yawned. “Ah, forgive me. These weeks of inaction have made an unseemly lethargy of my limbs.”

“And I should bid you goodnight. Sleep well, Your Majesty.”

He stood and sketched a simple bow. “May the Heavenly Spheres send you blessed sleep. Goodnight, dear lady.” So saying, he shimmered from view.

Adyton reached for the jewel embedded in his sword-hilt to follow, but paused, seeing Nyssa’s sharp look. “Your Grace?”

“If we do not choose the time and place,” she said, “Auguste will do it for us.”

“I know it.”

“In three days,” she said, “The King performs _Entreé d’Apollon_ for the first time in many moons, _la belle danse_ which above all others epitomises the harmony of the Basilica. It would be a pity if the court were only to find out after the fact. Of course, if the royal calendar were to leak out—”

“I understand.” He hesitated, then drew himself into a formal salute. “May Mars watch over him.”

“I trust he will. Thank you.” She pressed her fist over her heart and bowed in return, a token of affirmation and accord in the complex gesture-language of the court. When he had teleported away to follow his master, she sought her own bed.

* * *

The Doctor opened his eyes to find Marta slashing at the straps pinning him to the pilot’s seat. He had brought them down more or less intact, until the planetary defense systems identified their escape pod as Sontaran. She helped him struggle groggily from the flaming wreckage. Then it was another brisk dash across uneven terrain to get clear of exploding fuel lines. As a shower of shrapnel flew over their heads and pelted down around them, he realised that he had landed in the right crater after all. They had just passed the shattered boulder where the day’s routine of mistaken identity, arrest, escape and recapture had begun.

As the lethal rain petered out, he found himself appraising the taciturn woman jogging beside him. He had sworn off warriors since Leela’s departure, but perhaps it was time to take the plunge.

His chest tightened. Was it? Did he dare risk another companion, ever again? Was it fair to make this woman a test case? But it would be her choice, just as each of them had chosen. If he was ever to take another companion— and deep down, he knew he could not travel solo forever— perhaps it would be wise to cultivate one like this. A fighter, but one who yearned for peace.

“Doctor, where are you going?” Marta puffed. “The base is back that way!”

“And my ship lies in this direction,” he said. “I’m afraid I had an awkward difference of opinion with the base commander. I’m not keen on continuing the debate. Are you coming?”

“Coming where?” she said. “There’s nothing up… the hell is that?”

“The TARDIS,” he said, jogging up the short slope towards the welcoming patch of blue on the grey crater’s rim. “My ship.I’ll give you a lift you back to your base. Unless…”

No one could ever replace those who stayed behind. But the universe had lost much of its savour without a friend to share in its marvels. Maybe it was time.

“Now that Marshal Vrax has realised that this system has no strategic value—” thanks largely to the Doctor’s fast-talking— “he’ll claim a glorious victory and start withdrawing his forces. Which means all that’s left is the dreary mopping-up. You told me you were training to be an astronaut before the war. How about getting a head start on seeing the universe?”

“Now there’s a thought.” Staring doubtfully at the pillbox-sized capsule silhouetted against the sky, she followed him up the slope. “What’s your starting pay?”

“Most of my companions come with me for the experience,” he said, aggrieved.

“What, you only invite the idle rich?”

“Not necessarily.” The Doctor bounded the last few feet, dug out his key, and opened the door to her with a modest bow. “After you.”

The woman peered past him with a gleam of speculation in her eyes. That, too, was something he had missed seeing. “Gods know you want looking after. But they’ll be expecting me back at HQ. The war may be over, and then again, it may not. I’ve learned a good deal about the enemy, thanks to your help. I need to deliver that intel.” She held out her hand. “Good luck, Doctor.”

“And you, Marta.” He shook it firmly. “May I offer you a lift, at least?”

“Thanks, but no.” She shrugged. “I can find my own way.”

“Yes,” he said, relaxing into a smile. “I believe you can.”

With that, he turned his back on the wasteland and hurried inside. Regret was tempered with relief. Perhaps it was just as well that she had declined. He flipped the door lever absently and moved to the dematerialisation controls. That was when he noticed the indicator light blinking on the communications console.

* * *

Life in the Basilica had slowly returned to normal. For the first time in months, the King danced once more before the populace. Dressed in martial attire, plumed headdress bristling above solar mask, the Hierophant prowled across the throne room like a lion, stalking, leaping, marching, heels striking hard against the floor. All around their leader, young nobles tried to outdo themselves in complicated maneuvers, seeking to catch the eyes of the ladies of the court. Each step boomed to the solemn beat of drums. The lattice vibrated with a surge of triumph.

Two thrones were upon the dais, as was proper, and two queens, which was not. Her Serene Grace Rhea Feronia, High Priestess of Hygieia, had lately returned from her domain, her staff of office now doubling as a cane. She watched the proceedings with an air of weary triumph, engendered by the fecund figure on her left. The Queen’s petite, rounded frame was resplendent in peacock-green brocades embroidered with the leaves and fruits of Venus Primavera.The Warder kept close attendance on them both, looming behind the left-hand throne with his gauntlet resting on its scalloped edge. An impropriety, that, but only one pair of eyes had noted it.

Lord Acheron was keeping the Queen company, too, standing on her left to watch the fierce display. His lip curled as he followed the slight youth around the room, footwork not quite so nimble as a season ago. “It is good to see the King dancing again after so long an absence from our hallowed halls. I feared that married life was making him soft.”

Minerva’s voice was stiff through the mask. “An unwise assumption.”

“You’re very accommodating, my lady, as is no doubt appropriate for one of your charms.” It was perhaps too vulgar a shot. After his first assassination attempt, Acheron’s nephew had lauded the offworlder’s valour and lamented that she had seen fit to wed the usurper. But she was now hopelessly sullied, bearing a bastard without a drop of royal blood. No surprise that Achille bore the stain of cuckoldry without blushing, considering his other depravities, but that Acheron’s own sister could countenance the ascension of an alien to the throne instead of her true-born son was more than he could fathom.

Just now, he had the offworlder’s ear. “Tell me truly, Lady, since you are widely traveled: is this mimesis of manliness not a laughable pantomime? Have you not seen more puissant warriors on other worlds? Or did the Lord Doctor only take you to safe and peaceful realms like the Basilica?"

The scrape of the Warder’s armour was affronted as he turned a hooded glance towards Acheron. The Queen answered in the same cool tones as before. “I have faced deadly perils. Compared to other worlds, I find the peace here commendable. For surely the five Noble Truths elevate us above brute force. Although indeed, I find no place is altogether safe or at peace, and therefore it is well that you have a brave sovereign.”

"One who is lucky to have acquired so virtuous a woman to sing his praises.”

“Do you think it virtue, Uncle, to slight him before his very eyes but not to his face?”

Rhea cleared her throat, while Adyton’s mailed knuckles pressed against the wood hard enough to dent the varnish.

Acheron started to craft a reply, but at that moment the Queen gave a startled exclamation and started to rise. Adyton, too, had abruptly surged forward, only to halt, quivering, before the royal dais.

“Go!” she said, and started forward too.

Acheron saw what they had seen. If he had overplayed his hand too much a moment ago by betraying his displeasure at how low their dynasty had fallen, his nephew— the rightful heir, the Basilica’s last hope for a true Apollo— was once again throwing caution to the winds. The disguise was good, uncannily so, but the borrowed skin could not conceal that aristocratic lift of chin beneath the half-mask. Nor could Auguste’s uncle mistake the precise, masterly footwork that had brought him almost within a dagger’s thrust before the Warder bellowed a warning, charging into the first line of dancers.

Adyton’s hesitation before the thrones had cost a bare second. Auguste might yet have found his mark before the Warder reached him, but that whelp in king’s raiment had heard the Queen’s cry and skipped aside, struggling to draw his sword without slashing an innocent bystander. Auguste’s first dagger-thrust snarled in Achille’s cloak, and then the runt had the sword out to parry. Acheron had never seen the siblings cross swords, but he could not but sneer as the younger betrayed his infirmity, barely able to fend off the bodkin’s strokes with a blade twice its length. Auguste might yet prevail, despite his shorter reach.

Screams and shouts were breaking out around the hall. One worthy threw himself between the princes and crashed to his knees groaning, taking a thrust meant for the King. “Back!” the Hierophant commanded, sweeping his sword in a wide arc to drive away those who were trying to tackle his opponent. “Adyton, to me!”

More cries of horror and stupefaction broke out. From the vantage point of the royal dais, it was difficult to see what had happened, but Acheron could guess. Auguste’s offworlder camouflage was not designed for sword-work. As he turned, his uncle saw beneath the façade: a gaping tear from earlobe to lip, flexing like a rent torn in stiff parchment. There was no blood.

The Queen had started towards the fracas. Acheron seized her arm, wondering at her stupidity. “Stand back and let the Warder redeem himself,” he snarled, tempted to let her hazard herself and solve one more problem.

The Queen jerked hard, drawing him closer when he expected her to flinch away. Before Acheron had time to react, she had grasped the sword at his hip and drawn it. She held it point downward, but a quick upward flip could be fatal. “Unhand me, or I swear to you, you’ll be tried alongside Auguste,” she snapped.

Seething at the gross outrage which no one else observed, since all eyes were turned to the King, Acheron opened his hand and stepped back with a stony glare. “If you would imperil the heir—” he said.

“Be _still,_ ” Rhea commanded. “Both of you!”

“I will do as I must,” Minerva said, shoving the hilt back into Acheron’s hand, turning away and stalking towards the dance floor. For a moment her shoulder-blades framed a free target. But the damnable woman had guessed he still retained a shred of honour. In any event, his quarrel was with his own blood. He would not stain his hand to correct an offworlder’s impudence.

In those brief seconds Adyton had crashed through the dancers who had not scattered, his own sword out in a lightning-quick twist. Now the opponents were matched in skill. Auguste gave way, showing true footwork to shame the King’s, but he could not long hold out against the Warder’s fierce blows. Rather than be disarmed, he simply dropped the dagger and raised his hands high.

“Well fought, my bondsman,” he said. “I see I have lost this appeal.”

Setting sword-tip on the man’s jerkin, Adyton kicked the dagger away, fury in his eyes. “I serve none but His All-Holiness,” he spat, “who is your rightful lord.”

“Be at peace, my friend,” the Hierophant murmured. “See he does not move.” So saying, he stretched out his hand to the back of Auguste’s neck, fingers searching just below his hairline. There was a collective gasp as the man’s skin seemed to crawl and collapse like a punctured balloon, tugging his mask askew and retracting in flesh-colored folds like a hood cast back. With a fierce head-shake, he flung the mask away. Beneath, the features were those of a different man. The court was privileged to behold Lord Auguste, although few save his uncle and mother had seen his face enough to recognise it.

Adyton stared at him, brows knitting. “What sorcery is this?”

“Intriguing technology,” the Hierophant said, unruffled by the astonishing transformation.

“Well met, little brother _,_ ” Auguste said, smiling. “You might have found it useful.”

But the Hierophant had already turned his attention to the badly-wounded dancer. “Holy Mother? There is one here who needs your—”

Before he could finish speaking, Auguste had lunged out from under the Warder’s blade. Acheron felt a chill of foreboding as he leapt for the Queen and threw an arm around her neck before anyone could stop him. “Not one step closer, any of you!” he said.

“If you ever loved your father, let go,” Rhea said, dread shaking her voice.

“Not this way, sister-son,” Acheron said grimly. “The lady is only a pawn.”

“Sorry, Uncle,” he said. “I’m afraid it is time to call my brother’s bluff. Mother! Will you tell them, or shall I?”

Rhea’s words were as implacable as the terracotta mask of the goddess. “One who would slay his kin is no son of mine.”

“Then I am still your son. See! Achille’s charmed life is yet unharmed. As for his offworlder queen—” She made a strangled sound, struggling against his tightening grip. Then he let out a faint gasp. His arm fell away, limp.

Adyton had stepped behind the prince during this exchange, taking up the dagger that had been meant for the King. The stroke had been swift, silent, and deep. Auguste was dead before he hit the floor, sprawling across his cloak that was already red and sodden.

“Stupid fool!” Acheron raged, but it was too late. Lost, lost, lost to the same perversity of fate that had caused Auguste’s elder brother to drink from a poisoned cup meant for the runt. Now the only worthy man left in this whole tragedy was likely to be exiled as a murderer, if Adyton was not executed for slaying his betters. Acheron stood impotently beside the empty thrones, struggling to keep his face impassive as his last hope died in a welter of blood. Would that his own blood were as holy. Alas, he was the brother-in-law of the last true Hierophant, and not the brother.

Stone-faced, the Warder unfastened his sword-belt and offered it and the dagger to his guards, frozen in their tracks as they converged upon the spot. No one in living memory had used blades save in ceremony and nonlethal sport. Two murders in a century, let alone two princes slain, was unthinkable. Yet the guards made no move to apprehend their captain. Impatiently, he shoved the weapons into the hands of the nearest guard, then gathered the Queen under his mantle and drew her gently away. Behind them, tears dripped from Rhea’s mask as she moved stiffly towards her fallen son. She leaned heavily on her staff of office, a symbol of healing that could not avail him now.

Courtiers and dancers crowded round, some murmuring in subdued horror, some weeping. A few retreated under Adyton’s dour glare. The rest obeyed when the Hierophant waved them back. “Begone, all of you. Make way for the Holy Mother. Gape not at royal sorrow.”

He joined Rhea as she stooped over Auguste’s body. “I am so sorry, Mother.”

“It could not be helped.” Voice remote, Rhea unclasped her cloak and cast it over his naked face. “So now I have one son.” She shook off the Hierophant’s hand from her shoulder, nodding towards the Queen.

Leaving her to weep, he hurried over to his consort. “Minerva? All’s well?”

“I…I think so.” The Queen smiled tremulously, voice weak but triumphant. “Tell Mother— the baby’s on its way.”

* * *

_Hear me._

Nyssa's words drifted back to him, as if from beyond the grave, beyond the impenetrable Web of Time.

_Hear me!_

Reluctantly, the Doctor pressed the message playback switch, although he knew it would only reopen wounds.

“Doctor. It’s urgent. Didn’t you get my message?Oh, Doctor, please. We have come so far, back and forth. It was never… was not… _is_ not anything but my wish, my choice for us to remain friends. Stay in touch.”

An echo. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He played the oddly stilted message back again, listening closely. Yes! Of course! The old lattice-speech of the Celestial Basilica! How could he possibly have missed it before?

He slammed his fist on the console.

She had taken a tremendous risk in the first place, embedding the plea in such an elementary pattern, which Achille was certainly intelligent enough to decipher should she have been overheard. And now she had exposed herself to danger once again, practically shouting her SOS to any eavesdropper who might be listening in! What price might she pay for her indiscretion?

Leaping around the console, he began to key in the coordinates. His hands were shaking.

He should have guessed. The Rite of Dionysos was a fertility ritual that lowered inhibitions. If they were holding Nyssa against her will, if she had been _forced_ to marry, to bear a child, and he had left her to that fate—

Ten words. Ten simple, bleak words.

_Please come back. It was not my choice to stay._

His path was clear. He could not make it up to her, but he must make it right.

He threw the dematerialisation switch. The rotor began to rise and fall.

He spoke aloud to a console room that never should have been empty. “The Web of Time can burn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem the Doctor recites is the second half of Shakespeare’s Sonnet XVIII, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” It was quoted in the Big Finish audio _Eternal Summer_ by Alice and Harold Withers, when they brought the Doctor before the Lord and Lady of the Manor.
> 
> Skinsuit technology appears in _Fanfare for the Common Men,_ where Nyssa recognises it and knows where the deactivation switch is. That piqued my curiosity: where had she encountered it before?
> 
> The Hierophant’s dance is based on [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqMIUoeubLI) by Jean-Baptiste Lully, dancemaster for Louis XIV. (Short video clip, well worth seeing.) Whoever decided ballet couldn't be manly and martial any longer deserves a good shake.
> 
> Chapter title: entreé grave, "grand entrance," a highly formalised kind of French court dance, represented in the above video clip. “The highest and most revered form of _la belle danse_ [formal court dances of the nobility] was the _entreé grave_ , generally performed by a solo man or two men together, accompanied by music of a slow and elegant meter. The movements were majestic and weighty, limbs unfolding with calculated grace and no hint of degrading acrobatic jumps or turns.” — _Apollo’s Angels_


	6. Psyché ou de la Puissance de l'Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor returns to the Celestial Basilica, and he in not in a festive mood.

_“Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.” — Alexandre Dumas_

 

The controls felt sluggish under the Doctor’s hands, just the sort of thing that Nyssa used to put to rights when his back was turned. This time, however, irregular maintenance was not the problem. Nor was it simply a side effect of pushing through the complex layers of forcefields tangled around the Basilica. The TARDIS had penetrated far more challenging barriers. No, the ship must have sensed his mood. She was balking at what he intended to do.

“I know, old girl. I know.” He patted the console. “I’ll do everything I can to minimize damage to the timestream.”

It was a question of scale. Small events might ebb and flow in Heisenbergian flux, unnoticed or forgotten. But fixed points in time were dangerous to tamper with. Not that monarchs were more significant than any other person on the cosmic scale, but _the first ruling queen_ was a seismic change in a civilisation whose culture and religion were so keyed to male and female archetypes. If he interfered, it could have long-lasting repercussions. Therein lay the danger. A TARDIS that introduced a major temporal paradox risked being destroyed by Blinovitch feedback. Even if he could save Nyssa, he was putting his ship at risk.

Not to mention himself. Gallifrey would not look kindly on his rewriting the Celestenes’ history books. The penalty for a second offense was bound to be more severe than forced regeneration. But that did not matter now.

“You do understand?” he said. “I can’t let this be. Not this time.”

There was cold expectancy in the TARDIS hum, but perhaps that was just his imagination. Sighing, he stepped outside.

“Lights.” Synthetic candlelight flickered to life around him, illuminating a pleasant suite whose amenities held no attraction for him now. It was the very same room that he and Nyssa had shared on that last fateful night when they parted on decidedly awkward terms. The hangings, the lanterns, the bed, the wardrobe and other appointments were exactly as he remembered. He almost expected to see her mask still lying on the nightstand where he had left it. Only the flowers were gone, their vases and troughs yawning like empty gums.

Barely registering his surroundings, the Doctor strode outside to the balcony and bracing night air. There he surveyed the Basilica’s vast complex of spires, palatial structures and connecting spans. Across a yawning gulf, the central palace loomed with luminous lines of gold, amber and blue flame, shining through the billows of fog like a paper origami lantern. A suitably elegant bower for Nyssa, or so he had believed. Now it was simply a prison to be infiltrated.

His eyes fell upon the tallest spire, a huge pylon looming up behind the great palace which housed the ballroom, banqueting hall, and other chambers of state. That tower, surely, housed the royal apartments where Nyssa had gone after leaving him. Any of those distant twinkling lights could be her room. Or none. There could be a women’s wing somewhere, where pregnant women were obliged to lodge during confinement. She might even have returned to the Healing Hives of Hygieia, the source of her earlier transmission. Where had Nyssa’s daughter been born? The historical records were maddeningly vague on that point.

Planning ahead, he assembled a quick mental map of the Basilica’s overall layout before issuing a mental command: _royal apartments._ Nothing happened, of course. He reverted to the next closest location whose name he knew: _Hall of Jupiter_.

* * *

The ballroom was vast, cold and nearly deserted. The Doctor’s materialisation attracted little attention from the few courtiers strolling across the slumbering floor at this late hour. Two couples were wandering aimlessly, hailing one another across the vast space and converging to talk in reverent whispers.

He thrust his hands in his pockets and ambled towards them, eavesdropping with hidden urgency.

“The Royal Midwife delivered all five brothers, you know. The heir couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Experienced, yes, but she’s ancient— practically antediluvian. I hope Her Serene Grace hasn’t dismissed all her maidservants, or she won’t have anyone to lean on.”

“Assuming Trakenites give birth upright.”

“Hold your tongue! She’s an offworlder, not an animal!”

The Dowager Queen’s in no fit state to attend a birth, with her son’s death.”

The Doctor frowned. Had the Hierophant been assassinated after all? The Doctor harboured little sympathy for the young man, if he had taken advantage of Nyssa’s lowered inhibitions during the Rite of Dionysos. Even so, his death would not make amends. Besides, security around her was liable to be even tighter.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if someone might direct me to the royal apartments? The Queen requested a Trakenite physician, and, well… here I am. I came as quickly as I could.”

One of the courtiers who had been ignoring him turned and stared, raised eyebrows accentuated by the stark white and gold facepaint he wore from cheekbones to scalp. “Oh, an offworlder, are you? That explains it.”

“You can’t come before royalty dressed like _that,_ you know,” said his companion, laughing. “Besides, you’re late.”

“They escorted Her Grace to the birthing chamber two hours ago,” a young woman said.

The Doctor went cold. Two hours. He had to find her, and quickly. “Yes, which is why—”

“If you’re Queen Minerva’s physicker,” said another girl, eyeing him skeptically, “the Warder ought to have made arrangements to receive you at the docking platform.”

“Well, yes, but there’s been a bit of a mix-up,” the Doctor said, offering an apologetic smile. He couldn’t afford to raise their suspicions, however desperate he was for information. “My shuttle was delayed. I didn’t see anyone to report to, so I thought I’d better present myself to the Queen at once.”

“I’m not surprised you’ve been left high and dry,” said the first one. “The royal household’s in mourning. Frankly, we’re all stunned.”

His friend nodded sorrowfully. “You’d think every one of the Celestial Spheres danced in retrograde.”

“With all due respect to His Holiness, Dionysos has presided ever since his Coronation. Some of us are still waiting for Apollo. Who is not you, I deem.” The wary young woman turned away with a dismissive sniff.

“Hush,” the other girl said. “We cannot combat chaos by acting like barbarians. Please forgive her, stranger. She’s exercised on behalf of our beloved prince and his consort. We durstn’t take anyone near Her Divine Grace at such a time, not even if you were an emissary of the gods. Petition one of the guards. If you’re expected, then surely they’ll convey you to the royal apartments.”

“Much obliged,” he said, retreating with a bow. He scanned the room quickly, taking note of the guards standing by the exits at floor level. Two were staring at him from across the great hall, although they had not yet left their posts. Guards meant more delays. He forced himself to maintain a leisurely pace as he mounted the moon-bridge, turned right at the top and jogged along the mezzanine towards the exit.

Once again, chill air struck him with bracing clarity as he stepped out into the fog. His reconnoitre on the eve of the Coronation proved useful now. This bridge led away from the tower he was making for, but it joined a spire that served as a hub, sending spans out in all directions including his goal two levels up.

If only he could get there without being stopped. With his track record, he knew he was running on borrowed time. The bridge ahead offered no cover. The balusters and floor were translucent, and there were no convenient planters or pillars to hide behind. He started to make a dash for it, then turned back to study the monumental door he had just exited. It was framed by elaborate scrollwork forming an abstract archway.

If this rescue attempt was to succeed, he needed to steal a march on his worst adversary: bad luck. The way these affairs tended to go, the guards would be on his heels any minute.

 _Up,_ he commanded, picturing in his mind the upper rim of the arch. He had just time to correct the mental image with his back instead of his nose pressed against the side of the building. The transmat obeyed in a flash. Before he had time to second-guess himself, he was standing five metres up, spreadeagled above the doorway, heels caught on a narrow curved ledge that was little more than a lip on the wall.

Sure enough, a pair of guards rattled out of the door just below his feet seconds later. They looked about, but despite the Celestenes’ vaunted mastery of the heavens, neither of them looked up. Nyssa would have appreciated the irony.

“Now, where’s he got to?” one said. “Watch this end while I check the other side.”

The Doctor closed his eyes and dropped into a light trance, the better to keep his limbs perfectly aligned. Equilibrium was a revered principle in Celestene philosophy, and he certainly needed all his powers of balance right now. It was difficult to hold still knowing that somewhere nearby, Nyssa was facing an ordeal for which her intelligence and technical skills were all but useless.

At last the guard came jogging back. At any moment, he might lift his eyes and notice the figure plastered above the portal like a beige gargoyle. So far, however, darkness was coming to the Doctor’s aid. “No sign. Must’ve taken the sliding road down to the front gate. Best alert the doorkeepers.”

“Aye, sir.” The other guard touched the earpiece of his helm, murmured a few words and nodded. “They haven’t seen anyone yet. And…” he paused, tilting his head. “That offworlder energy weapon has gone missing.”

“What?!”

“No signs of a break-in, no transmat record of anyone entering the armoury, but the vault’s empty.”

“Do you mean to tell me we just let an _armed_ offworlder go unchallenged?”

“Suppose it might be, sir.”

The first guard swore. “The Warder’s going to have our eyebrows when he hears of this. Change of plan. Return to the Hall of Jupiter. I’ll stand watch at the Gnomon in case the stranger comes that way. He might be as harmless as her ladyship, but we’ll take no chances. Detain him at once if you see him again.”

“Aye, sir.” The second guard turned back towards the ballroom, while his partner headed for the far end of the bridge.

 _Gnomon,_ the Doctor commanded. He rematerialised in a tall, pagoda-shaped chamber. A staircase twirled up the middle like the spindle of a whelk. He sprinted up the spiral at once. As he had guessed, this was the hub he had spotted from the other end of the bridge. The tall tower that might be Nyssa’s prison lay off to his left. Two turns of the stair put him on the correct level. With any luck, the guard would plant himself by the transmat point down below.

Just as he was about to step onto the upper walkway, the sound of voices forced him to duck to one side of the opening and press himself flat in the shadows. Two servants were walking towards him. He could hear snatches of their conversation as they drew near.

“…themselves to blame if the birth goes badly. Who’s going to fetch and carry, I ask you? Calliope can’t do everything herself. And the Queen’s offworlder blood and all! It’s a wonder they ever conceived.”

“Hygieia keep her from harm.”

“Lucina, more like, but it comes to the same thing. But mark you, did you hear what Calliope said? Her mistress spends most nights in the king’s chamber, even these past few weeks.”

“’Tain’t moderate, but there, he’s a lusty lad, as is right and proper in a king.”

The Doctor clenched his hands at his sides, waiting for them to pass on down the stair. Like most people, they did not look back at a doorway they had just passed through, a lesson he had taught several companions. Swiftly and silently, he darted out of his hiding place. The guard’s voice drifted up from two levels below.

“Halt! Did you pass anyone just now?”

“No, sir, not a soul.”

So far so good, but it looked as if his luck was about to run out. He supposed it was too much to hope that the tower’s entrance would be unguarded, and indeed it was not. Nor could the transmat leapfrog him beyond the sentries he could see in the distance. He needed a specific location’s name, or at least a precise mental image, to teleport past them.

There was nothing else for it. He stepped out boldly onto the bridge and set off, marching towards them with a brisk, purposeful stride.

Three of the six guards broke to intercept before he was halfway there. They drew their weapons as they closed on his position. Raising his empty hands, he halted and waited for them to surround him.

“Good evening, gentlemen!” he said, ignoring their swords. “I’m the Doctor. The Queen sent for me. Births, weddings, bat mitzvahs, quinceañeras, wouldn’t miss them for the world. Balloon animals a specialty. So if you’ll just send a message up to Her Majesty that I’ve arrived, I’ll be happy to provide the necessary… ah.” Two swords had come to rest with their points uncomfortably close to his hearts. Had someone had been briefing them in Gallifreyan physiology? “It’s a bit chill out here, don’t you think? I recall a warmer reception during my last visit.”

“Offworlders are not authorised on this level!” their leader snapped. “Explain yourself immediately, or we’ll demote you to a lower one!”

The Doctor followed his glance over the side of the bridge. The next level, he estimated, was about two thousand metres straight down. “We don’t have time for this,” he said, dropping his amiable patter. “Look. The Queen is my friend, and she’s asked for my help. If she is safe, then I shan’t trouble you any further. But if something has happened to her—” His deceptively mild tone hardened abruptly— “then you do not want to be the person who prevented me from coming to her aid. Do I make myself absolutely, _perfectly_ clear?”

The man’s expression faltered under the intensity of the Doctor’s manner. “We should have been informed,” he said, struggling to maintain control of the situation in front of his men. “Do you have any proof of what you say?”

“If you’ll pass word to Sir Adyton,” he said, praying it was still true, “he can vouch for me.”

The guard behind him muttered something inaudible. There was consternation in the faces he could see.

“That’s not possible at this time, sir.”

“Then you had better make it possible very quickly, since the Queen’s _life_ is at stake,” the Doctor said, beginning to lose his temper.

A shimmer behind him caused him to tense, but the sword-point pressing against his back eased off. The guards before him dipped their heads in a salute. “Sir!”

“Report!” The voice behind him was vaguely familiar.

“Captain, this offworlder claims to be—”

“Lord Doctor.” The new arrival circled around to inspect him. The Doctor was relieved to recognise him as one of Adyton’s subordinates. “He aided us in thwarting the Queen’s kidnapper during the Coronation Feast.”

Was that how they were spinning it? “Ah, Captain. I’m glad to see you. Nyssa sent me a distress call, which she’s not in the habit of doing unless it’s serious. I know her physiology. She may need medical care. Please, show me up to her at once.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” the captain said, nodding to his men to withdraw their weapons. “You must understand, these are extraordinary times. Quite aside from her divine labour, there was an attempt on the Queen’s life not three hours since. His All-Holiness has commanded the royal apartments sealed off until further notice. Anyone violating that perimeter will be ejected from the Basilica, immediately and permanently.”

“And fatally, I suppose?” the Doctor said. It was a long way down.

“Those are my orders, my lord. Now, I must ask you to allow us to search you for weapons. Remove your outer garment— slowly, if you please.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Shrugging out of his coat, he took note of its heft and weight. He had not cleared out his pockets in some time. “If you can’t take me to her, then I must see the Warder at once. He has some sense, anyway.”

The man’s mouth twisted sourly. “Sir Adyton, you say? That might be for the best. If you’ll just hand that over, my lord.”

“Oh, very well. Here.”

He swung his coat in a wide arc like a matador’s cape. The captain’s reflexes were good, but he had not counted on the speed and centrifugal force of a cricket ball in a hip pocket. It clipped him in the jaw, and the coat-tails did a fair job of snarling the nearest guard’s weapon. Which left two to contend with. The Doctor ducked the first sword-thrust, but the second flashed in his peripheral vision as he fixed his mind on a single word. _Calliope._

He had a split second to ponder whether his gamble had been critical mistake. Did the Heavenly Gates recognise a person’s name as coordinates? And if Calliope was within the royal apartments, would the lockdown codes prevent his reaching her? He felt a sharp lash of pain along his ribcage as the transmat seized him.

* * *

There was a scream as he fell to his knees in front of a woman carrying a large tray of linens and folded towels.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, scrambling to his feet and grimacing. The red stain on the inside of his elbow did not bode well for the sanctity of his jumper. “I’m the Doctor, and I’ve come to help.”

“The… the Doctor?” Clutching her burden tighter, she stared at him, taking in the outlandish clothes, open face, and curious vegetable dangling from the lapel of the coat he was holding. Her eyes widened further at the blood-stained rent along one side of his jumper. “You’re the one my mistress spoke of?”

“I am.” He set a finger to his lips. “Please, don’t call the guards. Hear me out. It’s vitally important I reach her. I shouldn’t even be here, but your history books say she doesn’t survive the night.” He saw the woman’s blanch, and took heart that he had found an ally. “I may be able to do something to change that.”

“You should have come sooner,” she lamented, shaking her head. “Oh, sir, she wanted you here sooner.”

The local gravity seemed to spike. “Don’t tell me it’s too late.”

“No, sir. My lord. I mean… I don’t know. But she’s stopped talking about you, these past few moons. I think she’s despaired of your coming. And now… if you’re seen, we’re both for it. No one’s allowed up there.”

He followed her involuntary glance towards the ceiling and began to breathe again. “Calliope,” he said, “If you care for Nyssa as I think you may, you have to take me to her now. Whatever the consequences, we cannot let her die. Can we?”

The dire conviction in his words reached her, even if she could not know their import fully. “No, milord, of course not. This way. Hurry.”

She shoved the linens into his arms, which served as an effective shield to hide his injury. It was superficial, but it was one more thing that might require tedious explanation. He was grateful that she seemed to accept it, and him, with no further questions.

This level was clearly “belowstairs,” access chambers for the servants and staff to reach the royal apartments above. The decor would suit a luxury hotel on Earth, but he was not fooled: the artwork on the walls was generic, the furniture pleasant-looking but sparse, and storage cabinets and fixtures were visible rather than camouflaged. Calliope dashed through several rooms, not stopping to answer the hail of a pageboy, and bundled the Doctor through a heavy door into a spiral staircase hugging the inner wall of the tower’s central pylon. There she made him halt to dress his wounds.

“There’s no time _,_ ” he insisted, desperate to reach the next floor.

“Then you should’ve steered better,” she retorted. Evidently Nyssa had expressed her opinion of his piloting skills at some time, probably when her messages went unanswered. Yet for once he had landed exactly when he intended to: as close to the fixed point as possible, in order to make a precise surgical strike. “We’ll never get past the doorkeepers with your dripping blood on the floor. You barely got past the Tower Guard, didn’t you?”

“You have a point.” He submitted impatiently while she tore linens into strips for a crude dressing to staunch the bleeding. There was nothing to be done about the jumper, but once she finished, he should be able to conceal the wound with his coat.

Working quickly, she told him in hurried whispers of the bombing at the Healing Hives of Hygieia and the shocking death of Auguste. Once, he would have found himself drawn into the local politics, just as he had on his previous visits. Now, he cared not a jot for any of it save the fact that, as he had suspected, the timing pointed to the Rite of Dionysos as the night of conception, assuming that Auguste’s attempt on Nyssa’s life tonight had induced labour a few weeks early. Between that and the difficulty of bringing a mixed-humanoid child to term without genetic tinkering, the danger to the mother was starkly clear.

 _Died in childbirth. Died in childbirth._ The entry from the TARDIS databanks kept flashing before his eyes as Calliope led the way up three flights of stairs. It was a maddening reminder that there were some things beyond a doctor’s ability to heal.

At last they reached an elaborate antechamber before a portal of opaque swirling mist. The way was barred by five armoured guards who drew swords and closed ranks as they approached.

“The Lord Doctor of Gallifrey, reporting to Her Serene Grace Nyssa Minerva as ordered,” Calliope said, addressing the man with the red-lacquered helm.

“How do you do,” the Doctor said, trying not to wince as he bowed behind the bundle of linens he was still carrying. “Her summons was quite urgent, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“Stop!” said the chief guard. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Calliope? No one is allowed entry, certainly not…this… _man!_ ”

“Offworlders have male physickers,” she said. “That’s what ‘Doctor’ means. And my mistress did send for him. She told me so herself.”

The man looked scandalised. “This is sacrilege! The priestesses of Hygieia—”

“I’m sure this is all very fascinating, but I don’t have time for a religious debate,” the Doctor said. “Nor, I am sure, does Nyssa. Good day!” Pushing forward, he succeeded in snaring three of five swords in the pile of towels as if it were an overlarge pincushion. He used the tray to parry the fourth, and the fifth man he simply bowled over. Fortunately, the barrier proved to be a privacy screen only and not a sealed forcefield. He dove through, ignoring the shouts that cut off the instant that he reached the other side.

Candlelight, soothing music, beautiful tapestries and hanging baskets of greenery formed a lavish cocoon for the proceedings. Comfortable furniture and spindle-shaped geometric sculptures provided rest for both body and mind. There was just one problem. The chamber was unoccupied. He spun around in consternation. Was it a blind alley? Had Celestene security intercepted Nyssa’s transmissions and laid a trap for him? Before he had time to search the chamber for clues, two of the guards burst through the portal behind him. He kicked an ottoman at the feet of the nearest one, and suddenly he was again having to dodge a blade slicing uncomfortably near his face.

A muffled cry from somewhere close at hand focused his reflexes with sudden clarity. As an overhead swing brought a blade flashing down towards his scalp, he reached up and caught the guard’s wrist, twisted and threw him to the ground. Fisticuffs had not been his forté for two regenerations, but a leaping kick was enough to knock the first man off-balance again as he sprang to his feet.

It was a temporary respite. The Doctor backpedalled, looking for something he could use to parry. Suddenly a third swordsman joined the fray, emerging out of a tapestry on the sidewall that was evidently an illusion. The newcomer’s stylised headdress, gilded mask, doublet decked with enough taffeta and velvet to upholster several couches, cape and high heels provided more substantial cover than any furnishings. The Doctor was still tempted to knock him down.

“Doctor?” said the Hierophant. “In the nick of time— I should have guessed. Sergeant, _halt!_ Cease fighting! This man has admittance; you do not!”

The Doctor would have liked to have given Achille a piece of his mind, but he had far more pressing business. That cry had told him where he was needed. Plunging through the illusory tapestry, he found himself in a dark chamber furnished even more ornately than the last, with columns of tinted water raining down on either side of a huge convex window open to the sky. Before it, facing moonlit clouds and bracketed by two women in priestess’ robes, was a bent figure. In contrast to her attendants, her garb was simple: a soft green robe that fell around her in fluted folds, tracing body’s curves. Her silhouette was changed, widened and rounded to accommodate the new life she was carrying, but that self-contained poise with which she held herself even under supreme duress was much the same.

His hearts caught. After all the rushing and fighting, he glimpsed a moment of profound stillness in the white knuckles of those small hands gripping the women’s shoulders for support. All the mighty Powers in the universe paled beside this one: the power of one being to bring forth another life, formed of its own flesh and blood. For a moment, the thrum of the Basilica’s Lattice washed over him again, a hushed and reverent expectancy brimming with joy and worry, shared among scattered minds that could not sleep for thoughts of what was happening here tonight. They loved her. Whatever this place had done to her with its callous, unthinking rituals, he could sense that much.

But all that love was mere abuse, if they had made her sacrifice her own body to play this part. Even now, the Dowager was stepping back from adjusting the mask Nyssa was still forced to wear, its feathers sticking to her perspiring cheeks. Masks, roles, ceremonies: he was sick of them. They had nothing to do with who she was, the friend he knew and cherished.

“Nyssa!” He crossed the room at a run.

The Dowager stepped forward to block his view. Nyssa released their shoulders, straightened and raised her head as she turned towards him. She was fighting to stand unassisted. “Let him approach,” she said, voice faint.

“Doctor!” the Hierophant called after him. “Wait!”

“Not one instant longer,” he said, closing the distance and thrusting himself between the older priestess and her charge. He slipped his palm under Nyssa’s with gentle finesse, forced his thoughts past a flood of relief and fear and vindication, and sent the mental command: _Home!_

He had her. The transmat whisked them away.

* * *

Tapestries, window, waterfalls, and unkind strangers vanished, replaced by the wholesome sight of the TARDIS waiting for them.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” he said, slipping a supporting arm behind her. The lights in the guest suite had turned off again, forcing him to fumble for his key. “I’m taking you straight to a Trakenite colony on Serenity. They’ll look after you.”

“Transmat, Doctor?” she said through clenched teeth. “You’d risk…my son?”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s not medically advisable, but then, neither is leaving you here. How are you feeling?”

“Like… passing… a gravitic generator.” She breathed out slowly and deliberately, starting to relax. The latest bout of contractions must have subsided.

“Can you walk? Just a few steps. Here.” He pushed the door open. “Let’s get you away before they trace my key.”

“No, Doctor,” she said. Planting her feet, she turned her head to meet his concerned gaze. The light streaming from the console room cast the shadows of the mask in stark relief. He blinked. That peculiar shade of grey-green matched her eyes, the voice was hers, but the line of the jaw was just a trifle too pronounced, obscured as it was beneath the fringe of damp feathers and a gauze veil that fell below her chin.

The person standing before him was a stranger.

“Who—?” he said, dumbfounded. “What have you done with Nyssa?”

The impostor tipped the mask back, revealing hazel eyes beneath. A familiar tenor rang out, exasperated, but with an edge of strained merriment. “Ah, Lord Doctor, your courage does you credit as her champion. Well met again. But I regret to inform you: I am not the damsel that you take me for.”

“Good grief.” He stared.

And stared again. Achille was clean-shaven now, apart from the ghost of a five o’ clock shadow. His voice was perhaps a trifle higher than the Doctor remembered. Understanding broke upon him in a rush of scattered memories: the Celestenes’ rigid division of the sexes, the boy’s supposed “heart surgery” at the Healing Hives of Hygieia, the old king’s reluctance to name him as heir, Auguste’s scorn for a “sham princeling,” and multiple assassination attempts in a culture where murder was anathema. All of which was rather beside the point. Achille might have good reason to disguise himself, but that left one Trakenite and three distress calls unaccounted for.

“Your Majesty. I do sincerely apologise for the interruption. I had no idea.” The Doctor was momentarily at a loss. “But I must ask: _where is she?_ ”

“Safe.” Achille’s face contorted in another spasm of pain, and he hastily pulled the mask down again. A perfect facsimile of Nyssa’s voice made the Doctor’s skin crawl with wrongness. “She will remain so… _only_ if you keep my secret.”

The shimmer of the transmat curtailed further speech. All five guards whom the Doctor had eluded scant minutes ago appeared in a semicircle around the TARDIS doors. They fell upon him like hounds on a stag, wrenching him away and striking him to the floor as he stood digesting Achille’s warning. He barely tried to fend them off.

“Don’t hurt him.” It was exactly how Nyssa would say it, and again he felt the tightness in his chest. Was she a party to this masquerade, wherever she was, or its hostage?

“Such are our orders, Your Grace,” the sergeant said, glaring thunderously at the Doctor as if he would like to disobey. “Take him away.”

Rough hands gripped him from all sides. Head throbbing from the blow that had dropped him, he opened his mouth to protest. A golden figure appeared in his peripheral vision just as the room faded from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: "Psyche or the Power of Love." Another French Baroque ballet by Lully based on the Greek myth of Cupid & Psyche.
> 
> That myth was actually one of the earliest versions of the Beauty and the Beast trope, only Beast was originally the god of Love (gods are scary and superhuman, and it's dangerous to see their true face). Psyche ("soul, spirit") loses him and has to go on a dangerous quest to find him and restore him. I kinda swapped their roles. ;)


	7. La Galanterie du Temps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which crisis reaches a climax, swashes are buckled, and the Doctor and Nyssa engage in a spot of derring-do.

_“All I know of tomorrow is that Providence will rise before the sun.” — Henri-Dominique Lacordaire_

 

A thousand questions hammered in the Doctor’s mind while a disapproving priestess dressed his wounds. Or perhaps the pounding was the after-effect of a sharp blow to the head.

He could not recall precisely how he had arrived in this cell. There were two guards and no doors, a logical precaution in a place with reconfigurable walls and transmat navigation. While the Doctor had been unconscious, someone had relieved him of his transmat key along with his coat, cricket ball, and everything else in his pockets. Not to mention his shirt and jumper. That left him with only his wits and whatever he could jury-rig out ofa medical stabiliser. The priestess was busy attaching one to the bandages around his midsection. He wished he could ask her for tidings of Nyssa, but Achille’s warning had gagged him quite effectively.

She was out of imminent danger, at any rate— or was she?

The Doctor’s worst fears had proved misplaced. Achille had not coerced Nyssa into providing him with an heir. Instead, the risk of childbirth was his, not hers, and the Doctor had endangered him with yet another abduction when he was in a vulnerable state. Logically, it should not cause any complications. If a transmat was miscalibrated badly enough to disrupt the birthing process, it would also impair bodily functions like circulation and neurotransmission. But it was not the sort of thing one should put to the test.

And that was quite apart from the challenges of medical care in a culture that denied Achille’s very existence. Unless Nyssa had studied multisex obstetrics on Traken, he had no specialists to call upon should anything go wrong, nor even to know what was normal. A pity the Celestenes had latched onto the symbolism of Apollo instead of Zeus, who, predatory habits notwithstanding, did offer an archetype of male birth.

The Doctor sympathised with Achille, but he seemed to be bearing up well. Nor did his predicament change the fact that, as far as history was concerned, Nyssa would not survive the night. The record of how she died was a lie, but to cover what truth? There were two possibilities. One, Achille’s words had been a threat, not simply a warning. She might be a hostage. The sham marriage need last only until the child was born, and then the “mother” would be dispensable— a liability, even. That would certainly explain her encoded plea. Yet it did not fit Achille’s profile, if he really was the pampered but kindhearted young prince that Jo had befriended. Which meant Nyssa might be a willing party in this subterfuge. But in that case, why the distress calls? More to the point, where was she? Surely she ought to be helping with the birth?

Racking his memory for everyone he had encountered while infiltrating the royal apartments, the Doctor finally remembered the overdressed figure of the Hierophant who had tried to bar his way.

“Oh, _Nyssa._ ” He had not meant to say it aloud.

“Here, that’s quite enough from you!” said the guard, hand dropping to his sword-hilt. “Speak of Her Divine Grace with more respect! She bears the new Apollo this night!”

“I meant no disrespect,” the Doctor said. “I brought her here, remember? She’s an old friend. You might consider that there’s other ways to value your queen than as breeding stock.”

“You dare—”

“Is that comfortable?” the priestess interrupted, checking the medipatch’s indicator lights.

“Er… yes, thank you,” he said. “I don’t suppose you could pass a message to the Queen for me?”

“Young man,” she said, clearing away bandage wrappers and bottles of ointment, “don’t you think you’ve bedeviled Her Grace enough for one night?”

“Very probably,” he said, irked at himself for forgetting the pantomime. “My apologies.”

“You can save those for when you’re released. Which may not be for some while, Jupiter willing.” She nodded to the guards. “That should do.”

“Thank you, Sister,” one said. He unsnapped the palm of his gauntlet and held it up. “I’ll see you out. Destination?”

“Hygieia’s Terrace, if you please.”

“Wait! Tell Rhea—”

They were gone. The Doctor began to examine the seamless walls of the small chamber under the glare of the remaining guard. But there was not much he could do, so long as he was trapped in a sealed room under close supervision. Before long, the healer’s escort returned and drew his sword.

“Your turn,” he said. “And no more trouble from you. They’re watching. Raise your hand.”

“I must see Sir Adyton at once,” the Doctor tried again, hands firmly in his pockets. “There’s someone who means the Queen harm, but it’s not I. The Warder knows I would only act in her best interests.”

“That’s not what we heard—” the other began hotly.

“Sir Adyton, eh?” The first man gave a humourless grin. “Aye, those are my very orders. You’ll see him.”

“Why do I have a feeling there’s a catch?” the Doctor said. But it was the only way out of this doorless chamber. “Very well. Take me to him.” He strode forward and grasped his hand.

The slight twinge of displacement told the Doctor he had moved, even if the only visible sign was the disappearance of the other guard. His surroundings seemed unchanged. The milk-white cell was exactly the same size, with bunk, commode and sink in the same configuration. The guard released his hand and rapped sharply on the nearest wall, which took on a translucent sheen.

“If he’s of a mind to answer, you’ll see him,” he said with a smirk. “Enjoy your stay.”

“That would be easier if I knew for certain that Nyssa was all right.” The guard snorted and vanished. The Doctor began to prowl the cell and inspect the meagre facilities. Halfway around the room, a dour grumble cut across the silence.

“Well? What have you to say?” It was Adyton, slightly muffled. “And what infraction brings you here?”

“Don’t you know, Warder?” He turned and saw the translucent wall had become transparent. The Warder stood on the other side, arms folded, expression stern, stature somewhat diminished. It took the Doctor a moment to figure out why. He was out of uniform, clad only in tunic, leggings, and a leather shirt bearing the imprint of missing armour. Many lines of care had stitched themselves over his brows and alongside his frown since last they had spoken. “Come to that, what are you doing here?”

“Awaiting trial,” Adyton said. “My hands are stained with royal blood, shed in defence of one who bears the King’s heir.”

“Ah. Of course.” The Doctor nodded. If anyone knew the High Hierophant’s secret, it would be his former bodyguard. “Well, then, I’m rather afraid I tried to take the Queen to an offworld medical facility. Out of concern for her safety, you understand. En route back to my ship I learned… that such assistance was unnecessary. The labour was going along splendidly, so far as I could make out.”

The Warder stood rigid until the last statement, then he relaxed. He searched the Doctor’s face for a long moment before muttering, “For your sake, you had better hope so.” He began to pace. “Did His Majesty send any word, any instruction?”

“There wasn’t time. But I overheard something while I was looking for the royal apartments. An energy weapon has been stolen from your Vault. Your people assumed I’d taken it. I didn’t. I don’t suppose the Queen’s attacker had inside help?”

Adyton stiffened. Then he slammed a hand against the forcefield, reeling back from the jolt of a security barrier that sparked under his fist. He struck again. And again.

The Doctor winced. “I’m terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s really not going to help. We’ve simply got to get out of here.”

There was a crackle of static. “Sir? What’s the Lord Doctor doing?”

“Nothing,” Adyton said, massaging his hand and turning angrily to address the air. “But you should have told me that offworlder weapon had been stolen.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve been relieved of duty by your own command.”

“That was before I realised Auguste’s accomplice might try to avenge him.” He took a deep breath. “I cannot order, but I implore you to double and treble the guard on the royal apartments. Send word to His All-Holiness that the serpent we feared may yet bear one tooth, and that Their Majesties are in jeopardy. Quickly, man! There is no time to lose.”

“Aye, sir. We’ll see to it.”

Adyton opened and closed his hands, striding in and out of view in frustration. “This cannot be countenanced. Where were you, Lord Doctor, during all the moons that we tried to track this serpent?” he said. “I know its name. But we could never prove our suspicions. If he strikes now, while thou and I are shackled here—”

“He’ll try,” the Doctor said, mind racing. “I hope that’s not the real reason for…” He hesitated, guessing that this conversation was not private. “Listen. Your chronicles say that the child lives, but Nyssa dies tonight. My own people’s laws forbid me from interfering with history. But I can’t let that happen. Do you understand? I have to reach her before that future becomes fact.”

“You would kill to save her?”

“I’d prefer to find some other way, but—”

There was another crackle of static. “Thank you, Sir Adyton. That’s cleared up the motive. We have the Doctor’s confession.”

“Confession?” The Doctor blinked.

“They think you meant to slay the child to save the Queen.”

“I meant nothing of the sort!”

“Chariklo, Lord Doctor. If ever you found yourself in need of safe passage, Her Serene Grace bade me tell you to remember, log Charik—”

There was a pop, and the wall between them abruptly went opaque. The Doctor slammed his fist against it. He received a powerful electric shock. Drawing a breath, he tapped three times as the guard had done when they arrived.

“Come on!” he fumed. “We weren’t finished! We’re trying to save your precious Hierophant’s life!”

There was no response.

How long had he been knocked out? How long since that weapon had been stolen? Were the precautions Sir Adyton had ordered enough?

“Think, Doctor. _Think._ ”

Chariklo. The place where he had come nearest to losing Nyssa. He could see her clearly in his mind’s eye, a spacesuit-clad figure slowly spinning high above his head in the blackness of space. _Log Chariklo._ It sounded like some sort of password, but to what?

10199 Chariklo, to use its proper designation. He groaned. Of course. The log of 10199. Didn’t she remember how much he hated logarithms? Well, it was a puzzle to solve, and he needed to steady his thoughts. Still fuming, he sat down on the bunk. The medical sensor beeped as he moved. Angrily, he peeled it off and began to flex its edges with slight, rapid movements as he focused his mind on maths.

_log 10199 = log 10 4 \+ log (1.0199) = 4 + log (1.0199)…_

Somewhere around the seventh decimal place, he found the backing of the medical patch was beginning to come loose. Slowly, carefully, pretending not to look at it, he continued working the warm plastic until the layers of the device split apart like the pages of a book. He glanced down. The nano-circuitry was suspended in sheets of clear film far too delicate to be tampered with by hand. But something glinted in one corner of the casing.

Another guard materialised in front of him, hand on sword-hilt. “I’ll take that, m’lord,” he snapped, holding out his hand.

“What? Oh. Take it. I don’t need it.” He patted the bandage around his ribs. “All healed.” Not quite, but it hardly mattered now. “I don’t suppose you could return my shirt and coat? I feel distinctly underdressed. It would be dreadfully embarrassing if the High Hierophant summoned me for an audience.”

Expressionless, the guard plucked the medical patch from him and vanished.

The Doctor squinted at the small item he had tucked between his fingers while handing the sensor across. A jewel. Smaller than the ornate key-jewels worn on necklaces, but he knew at once what it was for. At last, Nyssa had thrown him a line. He pressed it between forefinger and thumb and held it tight, barely daring to breathe. After six seconds, he thought to himself, _Home._

Nothing happened.

A password. It needed a special code to bypass the security lockouts. With a renewed sense of purpose, he began working on the next digit. Time was running out.

He had it. Closing his eyes and clearing his mind, he focused on each digit in turn. 4.00855758178. There was a tingle of warmth against his hand.

 _Nyssa,_ he thought fiercely. _Take me to Nyssa._

* * *

The cell vanished. With the bunk gone, he fell in an undignified heap on the floor, nearly losing hold of the small gem. Hurriedly he slipped it in his pocket and looked around.

He had returned to the same chamber where he left Achille who knows how many hours ago. But it was much changed. Flowers filled the troughs around the room. Soft music was playing. The TARDIS was bedecked in garlands. In fact, the ceiling above it was shimmering and warping slightly; the TARDIS shell was causing local interference with the forcefields. Just as well that the floor was made of real stone and tile, anchored to the scaffolding of the tower.

The room was cold and silent. The quivering expectancy of the Lattice bore down on his mind like the pregnant silence after a flash of distant lightning, just before the thunder. The general anticipation amplified his own, for all he tried to block it out.

“Your Majesty?” he called, hardly daring to hope.

Two guards shouted from the balcony, one from across the room. They pelted towards him, drawing their swords as they came. Despair crashed over him. He was back to square one, and there was no more time.

At his left, a shimmer: the door in the wall perpendicular to the balcony had turned translucent. The gold-clad figure he had seen before stepped out and waved an imperious hand. “Remain at your posts. The Doctor has obeyed our royal summons to attend Her Serene Grace. He will give us no further trouble.”

“All-Holiness?” The guards saluted, but did not withdraw.

“Your Divine Grace, we have it from his own lips that he will stop at nothing to preserve the offworlder Queen. _Nothing._ ”

“I apprehend. Well, Doctor?”

He bowed deeply and forced himself not to stare. “I came for her sake. But I assure you, I can’t rate her life above another’s, no matter how fond I am of a friend.”

“A proper sentiment. Captain, I commend your concern, but turning away the Queen’s physicker would entail greater risk. He shall answer to me and to my blade. Resume your posts. Corporal, please join them outside.”

“Sire.” They saluted again, obeying with visible reluctance. There was another tantalising silence while they filed out.

“Nyssa?” he whispered.

The instant they were out of sight, she threw her arms around him, knocking the mask askew. A voice that was not quite hers and not quite Achille’s crackled against his chest. “You do choose your moments, don’t you?”

“Shh. Careful.” Acutely aware of eavesdroppers, he reached down and resettled the voice modulator over her mouth, wishing nothing more than to tear away the mask and take a good look at her. Even her eyes had been transfigured, grey-green refracted to hazel by contacts or Rayleigh scattering. Her tight curls had loosened to a Byronic cascade, and, to his amused indignation, she was sporting a false beard nearly as foolish as the Master’s weak goatee. He wanted to laugh, or shout, or shake her, or tell her how desperately glad he was to see her. Instead, all he said was, “I can’t believe you’re a party to this charade. Don’t you realise what you’re doing is appallingly dangerous?”

“Don’t you think I’m aware of that? There have been three assassination attempts since you left.” Her disguised voice made it difficult to register that he had truly found her— _alive, she’s alive—_ and that he was not too late. “Where were you? I was afraid I’d have to smuggle myself off-planet.”

“I’m sorry. I thought… well it doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is you’ve trapped yourself in a temporal nexus. We have to extricate you somehow without altering history. As far as the official records are concerned, you died tonight.”

“I know, I—” She stopped, catching something in his tone. “You knew that, and you still came back for me?”

“Yes.” He smiled weakly. “You won’t tell the Time Lords, will you?”

“Oh, Doctor.” She hugged him again, fiercely. “I’m sorry, too. It never occurred to me you’d stumble across our cover story. Thank you.”

“Is there any reason not to go at once?” He knew the answer as he said it.

She glanced over her shoulder. “We have to play this through. Otherwise, as you say, history won’t know what to make of my departure. Anyway, I can’t leave Achille yet. He’s just getting to the hardest part. Do you mind? If you’d prefer to wait in the TARDIS—”

“I’ll assist, if I may,” he said. “After all, I’m the Queen’s personal physician.”

Her moon-smile under the lip of the mask should have fooled no one, beard or no beard. “That will greatly relieve her mind, I’m sure.”

She led the way into the adjacent room, the one which would have been hers if she had remained in their suite that fateful night. It, too, was ornamented with fresh flowers, shell-lanterns, and scattered furnishings that were more decorative than practical. The large bed had been pushed against the far wall. Piped-in music provided an exalted ambiance, or would have done, if not for a stream of expletives so colourful that the TARDIS refused to translate them. Against that profane background, the soaring strains of Lully’s _Te Deum_ seemed somewhat incongruous.

Nyssa shook her head with a smile and led the way towards the trio gathered under a makeshift arbour assembled from embroidered tapestries, garlands, and several of those spindle-shaped sculptures.

“An intriguing metaphor, but anatomically unlikely, Your Highness,” the Doctor said, following her. “Good evening, Majesty, Your Grace.”

“Well met again, my lord.” Achille bared a strained grin. “You find me somewhat… out of sorts. But we are right pleased to see you.”

He was standing just as before, garbed in a loose green robe with his arms draped over the shoulders of the elderly midwife, who bore his weight stoically, and his mother, leaning heavily on a staff she had not needed when the Doctor last saw her.

“Allow me, Your Grace,” the Doctor said, moving to relieve Rhea. The Dowager sank with a grateful nod into a nearby bergère. “I’m curious why a culture so well-versed in gravitic engineering doesn’t employ a suspension field for this sort of thing.”

“Tradition,” Nyssa said, taking over from the midwife. “Nobles are born upstanding. Here, Lucina, I’ve brought you an assistant.”

“Looks to me like you’ve brought a _man,_ ” the old woman grumbled, “as if we didn’t have sacrilege already with you two children all topsy-turvy.”

“That being so, one more sacrilege shall make no difference,” Achille said, eyes dancing with a hint of his usual bravura. “And, Doctor, let it not be said a king failed to match a queen in feats of hardihood.” Then he grimaced, gripping the Doctor more tightly as a contraction seized him.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Nyssa reminded him. “Deep breath in, deep breath out. Slow and stately, _Entreé Grave_.”

“I feel more like… _l’éléphant grave_ ,” he said, when he could speak again. “Doctor, how do you bear it? Changing bodies, I mean. Being trapped in a form not your own.”

“Well,” said the Doctor, “the last time, I had excellent help.” He tipped his head towards Nyssa.

“As have we. You have our thanks, Lord Doctor, even if you did try to deprive us of her at a most inconvenient hour,” Rhea said. “That was a reckless strategem, my lord, even for you.”

“Quite in character, I should’ve called it,” Nyssa said.

“Thank you, Nyssa,” he said testily. “Your Grace, if I may, I’d like to offer my condolences. I’m so sorry about...”

“It is not meet to speak of it now,” Rhea said, voice remote. “But while a mother’s heart grieves, I give thanks that my grandchild will not be born under a Sword of Damocles.”

“I’m afraid that may be a little premature,” he said. “Someone’s stolen that energy weapon that Auguste used during the Coronation Feast, and I think they’re still at large.”

“We’ve heard,” Nyssa said. “That’s why I suggested Achille remain here. The court believes we’re in the royal apartments. Besides,” she added apologetically, “the TARDIS is here, as a last resort. You left the door unlocked.”

He frowned. “I hope you’ve had these chambers sealed off?”

“All that can be done has been done,” Rhea said. “The Hierophant’s key has the only access code.” With those words, the whole room quaked. Achille let out a low groan.

Nyssa stroked his face soothingly. “The Lattice moves with you.”

“No. Floor… rock solid,” he said, panting through another contraction. “Doctor, check… outside.”

“By all means. Excuse me, Majesties.” The Doctor transferred Achille’s weight to one of the spindle-shaped sculptures. Lucina, who had been checking his progress, slipped under his arm muttering something about so-called _doctors_ and their help.

The Doctor made for the door. Halfway across the room, he heard footsteps clacking behind him. He felt a surge of elation and dread. Even with her ostentatious footwear, it was a simple joy to hear Nyssa hurrying to catch up to his long stride, just like the old days. But it was also a risk, one he refused to permit until safely away from this planet. “Stay with him, Nyssa.”

“Doctor—”

The door exploded in a bubble of searing light. He threw up his arms, shielding his face from the blast. A shockwave lifted him up by the elbows and hurled him backwards. Vases shattered. Petals scattered, stripped from stems like chaff in a hurricane. The bed slewed sideways. For a split second, the ceiling and part of the walls surrounding the door disappeared. An armoire crashed down from the room above, narrowly missing him as it struck the floor and splintered.

Lying on his back, the Doctor saw a tall man in dark burgundy come striding through the gaping hole before the Basilica’s structure reasserted itself. Acheron glanced down at him with a contemptuous scowl. Almost casually, he lowered his arm, bringing the weapon down to aim at his head.

“That’s… not the sort of thing… to wave about… complex gravitational fields,” the Doctor stammered. Even if he weren’t stunned, he had little chance of rising up to knock the weapon out of the man’s hand. The Celestenes might not be very practiced with firearms, but at such close range, Acheron could hardly miss.

“How _dare_ you, Uncle?” There was a ring of sliding metal. It seemed Nyssa had been far enough back to escape the shockwave, or else the Doctor had shielded her from the brunt of it. But the sword bridging the air above him was no match for a pulse laser. “Begone! You have no place here!”

“Nor does this offworlder. Yet you, truly, belong in women’s province.” Acheron’s laugh was harsh. “You may bar the birds of heaven from the Celestial Basilica, but the blade of truth cuts through all lies!”

The Doctor breathed easier when he dropped the laser into his belled sleeve and reached for his sword-hilt, suiting gesture to taunt. Focused beam energy in a network of artificial gravity fields was rather like a lit match in an oil refinery. Swords, on the other hand, were unlikely to kill more than one person at a time. Not that it was very comfortable being that person.

“Stop!” The Hierophant’s sword was already poised with the point hovering over the man’s breastbone.

“Well?” Acheron said, and gave a barking laugh. “You have no stomach for manly deeds. Whereas I will do what needs to be done!”

The Doctor rolled, sweeping his feet to cut the man’s legs out from under him. “Stay _back_!” he told Nyssa, planting a knee and pushing off to grab Acheron’s elbow, using it to pull himself up. His opponent staggered. The Doctor wrenched his sword-arm behind his back. “Now then,” he said, “Let’s just step into the next room, shall we, and discuss this matter like civilised men.” His prisoner snorted. “I hear your family tree is quite pruned enough already.”

A guttural cry— high, but not a woman’s voice— ended in a choking cough. Achille must be trying to keep silent. Acheron turned towards the sound. Nyssa jabbed at his mask, drawing his eyes back to her. “Ballroom, Doctor,” she said urgently.

“Phaugh!” Heaving against the Doctor’s grip, Acheron reached out and caught her wrist, twisting it with a violent jerk. “ _La belle danse_ will not save you from the people’s wrath when I tear the mask of deception away from you… like so!” The sword flew from her grasp.

The Doctor lunged, snaring the jewelled hilt as it spun past.

“Now!” she said.

“No, wait!” In catching the sword, he had lost hold of her assailant. His swipe for the man’s shoulder found only air. They were gone. A distant alarm began to sound.

Painfully aware of the empty space where she had been standing just a moment ago, he remembered Nyssa’s leap of faith, tumbling backwards over the balcony and trusting that he would catch her. He must not fail this time. Fumbling for the jewel in his pocket, he projected the thought: _Ballroom._

Nothing happened.

He peered down in consternation at the jewel pinched between his fingers.

Rhea, who had been trying to conceal her son with her voluminous robes, called to him urgently. “Doctor, make haste! We cannot risk her being discovered.”

“I know!” he said. “The transmat’s not responding!”

“Heavenly Gates!” Achille said, fighting to get the words out. “Duplicate… royal keys… detected. Lockdown.”

Rhea started towards a panel on the wall. “I shall contact the Guardians of the Heavenly Gates to unlock the King’s key, but there is no time—”

“Don’t bother,” the Doctor said. “My ship’s faster.” He was already moving. On the far side of the door, he nearly tripped over one of the guards blocking the threshold in the next room. The other two lay outside, one of them crushed under an aircar whose nose had come to rest embedded in the balustrade, its engines straining to keep it aloft. Of course: the easiest way to bypass transmat security protocols was to avoid them altogether.

The TARDIS door opened at his touch. He dashed inside, tossed the Hierophant’s sword into the umbrella stand, and threw himself at the controls. Once again, the TARDIS felt sluggish, a hazard light blinking under his hands as he brought the ship to an abrupt stop.

“Sorry, old girl. I’m having one of those days too.” Snatching up the sword, he bolted outside.

* * *

The translucent floor was glowing ominously around the base of the TARDIS. His ship had landed in a depression— no, the gravitational fields were struggling to bear its mass. As he stepped out, the dance floor began to divide into circular zones, each circle rising to a peak like a carousel’s roof and beginning to turn. Just as before, the smaller gyres orbited the ballroom’s central pylon like planets around a star. With no dancers or music to give life to stark geometry, it was an eerie sight. The only sounds were the muffled whoosh of the waterfall suspended overhead and the unlovely clash of metal striking metal.

The Doctor raised his head and charged towards the sounds of battle. To his relief, he saw that Nyssa was not alone. Some of the ballroom guards had come to her aid. Two had already fallen. Murder and violence, in a place where both were almost unheard-of: the Doctor thought of Traken. The remaining two guards were sparring furiously with the ex-Regent near the centre where the floor was rising to form a plateau above the rest.

A pity the transmat had failed to relieve Acheron of his weapons. But why was Nyssa not using the guards’ cover to escape? His pace quickened when he spotted the reason. She was clinging to the gun in Acheron’s left hand, trying to spoil his aim while he fended off his attackers with consummate swordsmanship. If she let go, he could fire at her point blank.

As the Doctor bounded up the stepped slope, another guard was cut down. Acheron turned upon Nyssa and yanked the weapon out of her hands. It went off. An umbrella of white light burst overhead with a tremendous explosion. The Doctor looked up in amazed horror to see the translucent roof splash outwards and vanish. The upper cladding of the pylon was blasted loose by the shockwave. Fragments rained down, the largest landing across the moon-bridge and barring the path of more guards charging into the hall. The waterfall, which had formed a canopy over the roof’s dome, came sluicing down in a torrent, setting off sparks where it struck the pylon’s exposed infrastructure. Nyssa’s last defender was carried away by the current. She nearly slid after him, but Acheron seized her collar, dragging her back. The Doctor fought his way up to them through the spray.

“Release him!” he said. “For goodness’ sake, man, he’s your sister’s son!”

“Son?” Acheron laid the sword across her neck. Nyssa stopped struggling. The Doctor froze. Meeting his eyes with a gloating smile, Acheron brought it up slowly and deliberately to slice the false beard away. “A eunuch, rather, who would bequeath Apollo’s crown to a harlot’s spawn with God knows what father! Is the babe yours, Lord Doctor? Can you even be sure? Phaugh! It sickens me to touch this unnatural freak.”

“Let him go,” the Doctor said. Force was no use, especially while Acheron held Nyssa’s life in his hands. “You’re wrong. The child is Achille’s, beyond a shadow of doubt.” Nyssa gave him a warning look, but he pressed on. He had the advantage of foreknowledge. A girl would face obstacles down the road, but at least there was little chance of a Y chromosome pointing to a different father. “A blood test should prove its paternity.”

“Paternity?” Acheron sneered. “Then Hygieia’s physickers have truly outdone themselves. Perhaps the miracle child does indeed carry the blood royal, but this— this— perversion of nature— need not blaspheme the Celestial Basilica any longer. No more pretender! I shall silence her lies— so!”

“NO!” The Doctor threw himself at Acheron, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. There was a grating metallic _crack_. Time seemed to miss a beat. But Nyssa had defended herself in the only way she could, tucking her chin down at the last second. Instead of her throat, the sword sliced across the mask and split its metal face on the diagonal. Drops of blood flew, but not so much that the Doctor feared for her life. Enraged, he pressed his attack. Acheron let slip his victim to meet the furious onslaught.

“Go, Your Majesty!” the Doctor urged. Keeping half an eye on her, he was nearly disarmed when Acheron used a sudden devious twist.

Nyssa edged away, the lower half of the mask dangling from the wires of the now-useless voice modulator, blood trickling down her cheek. “Be careful!” she hissed, the whisper disguising her voice. He caught a glimpse of her worried eyes as she turned and fled. Acheron aimed a slice at her retreating back that he barely managed to deflect.

Then she was safely out of reach. The terrible moment had been averted. With a rush of adrenalin and singing relief, he focused his attention fully on swordplay. He needed it. Acheron was a formidable opponent. The Doctor was grateful he had a younger body than the last time he had come here. Even his third incarnation would have been hard-pressed to match the ex-Regent blow for blow.

“You’re a fine swordsman,” Acheron said grudgingly. “Had you wed the princess before she mutilated herself with her mother’s connivance, we might have had a worthy king.”

“Sorry, not really my line of work,” the Doctor said. “Look, why don’t you just give up? You can’t reach him now.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Acheron threw a feint at his chest, driving him back onto another moving platform. The Doctor scrambled back, but not before his opponent had swapped his sword to his off-hand, drawn the laser and fired.

Screams from the mezzanine showed that some witnesses had arrived to take in the spectacle. The blinding explosion drew the Doctor’s attention away momentarily. The beam had burned a great swath of nothingness across the dance floor. For a frantic moment he thought Nyssa had been caught by the blast, then he saw her crouched behind a heap of debris.

“The TARDIS!” he called, fending off a blow that grazed his scalp.

Nyssa moved just in time. As the missing section began to reform, another shot took out a different part of the floor.

“Are you mad?” he barked at Acheron. “Keep this up, and the whole building is going to unravel!”

There were other vulnerable bystanders besides Nyssa, although they were now being herded towards the exits by the guards. The Doctor redoubled his efforts, no longer trying to disarm but duel in earnest. He would maim if he must. Reverting to right-handed sparring, Acheron fought back savagely, still squeezing off random shots in Nyssa’s direction. More blinding flashes erupted. The floor vanished wherever the beam struck. Some of the panels did not return.

The guard who had been swept away had picked himself up, and was making for Nyssa. He never reached her. The Doctor was too busy trading blows with Acheron to see clearly what happened, but he heard the scream as the guard fell through a coloured pane that appeared solid. The man’s cry faded into the distance. With the transmat still in lockdown, there was no chance of being whisked to safety. This was serious. If the floor’s tinted surfaces were no longer a reliable indicator of solid ground, any step could be a trap.

“Nyssa, hold still!” he cried.

“Nyssa?” Acheron gaped at him. Then the man threw back his head and laughed. “Of course! Of course! How blind we’ve all been! This weakling is no Apollo, but a mere _girl_. And as for the so-called King—”

His words were drowned out as the floor carried them through the rumbling torrent of water, but the damage was done. There was a light of malignant awareness in his eyes. The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but he had come under the full force of the waterfall and was beaten to his knees. Acheron waited for the wall of water to pass before rearing back for an executioner’s swing at his stooped neck. The Doctor rolled to dodge and nearly landed on another illusory panel. He felt one knee dip below its surface and recoiled.

“Doctor!” It was Nyssa’s own voice now. “The floor! It’s failing!”

Slowly but inexorably, the outer circuits of the dance floor were disappearing. There was no longer a way to reach the ballroom’s fixed perimeter. The Doctor could do nothing to help her, pinned on one knee, fighting desperately to ward off Acheron’s hammer-strikes. At last, when the man again committed his full strength to a downward stroke, the Doctor saw his chance. Leaning away from the blade instead of parrying, he reached across the man’s body to hack at the gun. His exposed thigh was raked by the sword’s tip, but his own sword sheared clean through the barrel. And Acheron had overbalanced. The Doctor slammed his head and shoulders into the man’s shins, transforming Acheron’s stumble into a headlong fall.He went flying and fetched up in the trough between two gyres far below.

The Doctor had miscalculated. Nyssa was down there! Snarling, Acheron scrambled to his feet and began to hop drunkenly across the peaks and valleys of the constantly-moving maze. The Doctor tried to chart a course that would reach her first, but Acheron was more familiar with the room’s 4D topography. Nyssa began to move away, but slowly, testing each panel’s solidity before stepping down.

“Doctor!” Nyssa called. “Console!”

“What?!”

He staggered as the floor lurched, shuddered, and morphed into a wildly different configuration. Peaks and valleys smoothed out, transforming the room into a huge six-sided pyramid with a bewildering array of circular zones of rotation, shifting polygons and unidirectional strips that flowed like conveyor belts. The middle of the room was now an elevated triskelion of three gyres that rose and fell in a large cylindrical unit. Apart from that, there appeared to be little rhyme or reason to any part of the floor. Acheron, who had been making alarming progress, was suddenly carried up and away from her by a swiftly-moving ramp.

“The floor!” she called. “Where should I go?”

Suddenly he understood and almost laughed out loud. It was a rough schematic of the TARDIS controls! Had she programmed all this beforehand, or used the Hierophant’s key to send telepathic commands on the fly? Either way, the battlefield was suddenly very much in their favour. They knew this layout by heart, whereas someone raised with the rational, mathematical geometry of the Celestial Basilica would find the TARDIS console utterly baffling.

Near the edge of the floor, it was difficult for Nyssa to see the overall map. But from his vantage point above her, the Doctor could direct her, taking advantage of the one-way conveyor belts — representing coordinate sliders, the door lever, the radiation and atmospheric sensors — to leapfrog across whole sections quickly. If only he could bring her to the real TARDIS before Acheron made sense of the chaos. The TARDIS was perched a third of the way around the rim from Nyssa, about where the databank screen would be.

Once upon a time, she had teased him for making the console’s operations into a dance. Now, that dance was theirs.

“To your left— referential difference display!” he sang out. “Close the scanner, then use the emergency override to cross to auxiliary power. Battery B at maximum, A powered down, artron gauge, and over!”

She began to weave and spin across the floor. He started down to meet her, taking a meandering path so as not to give away her moves in advance. Acheron swerved to cut him off. The man was growing intolerable. The Doctor abandoned his attempt to reach Nyssa, instead trying to mislead her pursuer.

Nyssa raised her voice again. “Dead end!”

Could anyone mistake her for Achille any longer, now that she was using her real voice? But the guards had fled with the spectators when Acheron started blowing up chunks of the floor, and they were just beginning to return. The Doctor turned back to the more immediate problem. It took him a moment to spot what she had seen: a rivulet of water draining through a section of floor that appeared solid. There was no telling how far the hidden hole extended.

“Don’t worry. Go back— scanner control open this time— to the mean free path tracker, the coordinate sliders—ah, that’s it, up and over— to lateral balance cone 3, air recycling, door lever open, ride the external sensors, chameleon circuit, and you’re there.” She had to circle two-thirds of the room, and he could only hope she would not meet another road block. “Have you got all that?”

“You’re only postponing the inevitable, Doctor!” Acheron said, stalking towards him. Apparently he had decided to eliminate Nyssa’s guide and then polish her off at his leisure.

“Many inevitable things are worth postponing, I believe,” the Doctor said, working his way down towards auxiliary power to draw his opponent away from Nyssa’s revised route. “400-year overhauls, for example. Also death. Speaking of which, I’ve heard they execute kingslayers here. You might want to reconsider your position.”

She was almost there. But then the Doctor saw he had simply guided her the long way around to disaster. The depression where the TARDIS stood had deepened into a crater, and the floor for some distance around it was flickering like a dying electric torch.

“Stop!” he cried. “The TARDIS is destabilising the floor!”

It was only a question of whether the erratic Hostile Action Displacement System kicked in before that side of the room failed altogether. Sure enough, the wheeze of engines announced his ship quitting the field. It faded away, leaving Nyssa stranded at the edge of the unstable zone. The chameleon circuit had always been unlucky, and that was approximately where she was standing now.

The Doctor was so distracted by her predicament that he had forgotten about their foe. Nyssa shouted a warning. Half-turning, he saw Acheron barrelling down on him from above. There was no time to dodge. The man’s eyes blazed with murderous triumph as he threw his whole weight into a sword-thrust that would run the Time Lord through. But the blow never reached him. Acheron’s roar of victory changed to fear as his front foot sank through another weak spot. The Doctor grabbed for his shoulders as he went down. But the man shrugged him off and dropped into the abyss with a dreadful cry.

Looking around, the Doctor saw that Nyssa’s plight was becoming desperate. The section where she was standing had turned completely transparent, with no misty surfaces to show its boundaries. The guards were converging on her position, but they could not reach her. The three metre gap between her and the solid rim of the ballroom might as well be a chasm.

The Doctor calculated vectors, dropped the Hierophant’s sword and began to sprint, praying he would step on no trick panes. His torn leg was burning, but that did not matter. He stumbled, ran, stumbled again, threading the shifting tracks with singleminded precision. With a final burst of speed, he pushed off, launching himself into space.

_Mind the gap._

Nyssa saw him coming and leapt in the same direction. He caught her roughly around the waist, her own momentum ensuring that his was barely slowed by their collision. They crashed down together on the far side. Reaching arms seized her cloak and doublet to keep them from falling back into the abyss. They rolled to a halt with the Doctor on top. He remembered that half her face was exposed, chin to right cheekbone visible where the mask had broken diagonally. There was little hope she could pass herself off as Achille now. Wisely, she kept quiet, pressing her face against the floor. He gave her a silent squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [themindrobber.co.uk](http://www.themindrobber.co.uk/tardis-console-peter-davison-details.html) and the 1983 TARDIS Technical Manual for helping me figure out the ever-changing console panels, approximately as they were between S19 and 20 ([version 3.3](http://www.themindrobber.co.uk/tardis-console-peter-davison-details.html)). A rather loose adaptation, since the show wasn't particularly careful about consistency; I borrowed a few controls used or mentioned in _Castrovalva_ and _Arc of Infinity_ as well.
> 
> Chapter title: "The Gallantry of Time," another French Baroque ballet by Lully.


	8. Le Médecin Malgré Lui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue. In which some truths are revealed, some hidden, and some are left unsaid.

_“Heaven deprives me of a wife who never caused me any other grief than that of her death.”_ — Louis XIV

 

“Unhand our King!” one of the guards shouted, cuffing the Doctor’s ear. The hands that had steadied them now seized him by the shoulders, trying to pry him loose.

“Hold!” To the Doctor’s astonishment, it was the Warder’s voice. “The King is safe.”

The men grappling him let go, but the edge of a sword rested ominously against the back of his head. “Sir Adyton,” one said, “beggin’ your pardon, but aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”

“Her Grace Rhea Feronia commanded my release, hoping to spare the Lord Doctor this peril. But I came too late to be of service.” He raised his voice. “The Holy Mother had set a trap this eve to discover the traitors. Alas, during the night’s upheavals, the bait was left unguarded, and the wolf bore her away. Up, Amazon, and confess your sin.”

This was not, to the Doctor’s way of thinking, a prudent form of damage control, but he could do little to help in his current situation. At least Nyssa had been honing her acting skills since her ludicrous attempts to pass for a hardened criminal on Folly.

She slid out from under him and raised her head slowly. Her appearance set off gasps of astonishment and outrage. “Is it a sin to love the King more than one’s own life?” she said, addressing Adyton. “You were locked up. In Mars’ absence, Minerva’s counsel must suffice.”

At this, some of the stony faces around them began to crumple with merriment. Not all, however. There was calculation and disapproval as well.

Adyton’s eyes were unsmiling. “Hold your tongue, girl. I know what you are and whence you came. Our new Minerva has naught to do with you. Sully not the Queen’s name! It is the Dowager who resorts to sacrilege to shield her son. To think the panoply of Apollo should adorn my lord’s mistress, a lowly handmaiden of Hygieia!”

“Pardon me, but would someone help me up?” the Doctor said politely to the man poking him. “I’ve had rather a trying day.”

Adyton waved off the guard and raised the Doctor with his own hands. “I must apologise, Lord Doctor, that you risked your life for a mere concubine and not for the King himself. Yet your honour is no less for this selfless act. You have surely delivered us from a traitor who meant to slay the King.”

“Always glad to be of service.” The Doctor bowed, trying to get a better look at Nyssa’s injuries without appearing to take such an interest in her that he compromised her further. The blood dripping down the side of her face veiled it almost as effectively as the mask. He wished he could wipe the blood away to see how badly she’d been hurt.

Noting his scrutiny, she gave him a shaky smile. “I’m most grateful to the Lord Doctor.”

“I said, hold your tongue, girl!” Adyton thundered.

She dropped her eyes meekly.

“Stalwarts of Mars,” he continued, turning to the guards, “on a night when the High Hierophant’s lawfully wedded lady performs her noblest duty, it would be a matter of scandal should the Basilica hum with gossip over a concubine. Therefore I beseech you in the name of Her Serene Highness Minerva, the Lady Nyssa of Traken, to hold your tongues and swear by the Sun’s light not to reveal the truth about our King’s… excessive virility. Nor should we insult his courage with the hysteria of maternal care. Let us avert our eyes from the blemishes of the Great, just as they forgive our own lapses that allowed two assassins to disturb the Basilica’s tranquility.”

“Aye,” one said. A scattering of nods and salutes joined in.

“No wonder he dallies in the Healing Hives,” another added, “if this is one of his mother’s priestesses.”

“Ah, but he won’t want her back now she’s marred!” chortled a third.

Adyton glowered but made no attempt to silence them. He took Nyssa’s hand with a gentleness that belied his severe tones. “Come, tart, let’s have you to the healers to salve those wounds. Lord Doctor, if you would accompany me, I must report this grievous news to the King.” He extended his other hand. The Doctor gripped it at once. The ballroom, the guards, and the fractured dance floor faded away.

* * *

They materialised in a finely-appointed room whose curved windows overlooked yet another stunning panorama of the Basilica’s spires. Potted plants, a bookshelf, a peacock-fan chair and owl motifs carved into the bedstand proclaimed the room’s owner. Adyton turned to her, a small disheveled figure now faintly ridiculous in the Hierophant’s bulky costume. “Your Majesty, a thousand apologies for that vile slander.”

“It gave them a reason they could believe, while discrediting the idea that Achille would willingly swap places with a woman. I understand.” She raised her chin. “Go to him. Quickly now, before they drag you back to your cell.”

“But, Majesty, I brought you here only so you might put off Apollo’s raiment before withdrawing to Hygieia’s Terrace. You too, my Lord.” He bowed to the Doctor. “Once again we cannot repay, but only remedy wounds bravely got on my master’s behalf.”

The Doctor glanced down at his torn leg. “Oh, no, it’s nothing, really. Let’s just see about patching up Nyssa.”

“Best not,” she said. “We can’t count on that lie fooling everyone. Some of the priestesses know me.”

“But—” both men said at once.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, smiling up at them. “I have my own Doctor here, don’t I? Sir Adyton, please go. He needs you.”

The Doctor frowned. He need hardly point out to her that his medical skills were somewhat piecemeal. But if he could get her stabilised, he knew where to take her. He would humble himself to Doctor Marius, whose expertise in skin regrowth he had already tested.

Adyton drew himself up, stretched one foot forward and folded in a bow so deep that the Doctor was reminded of a giraffe drinking. “Your Majesty. It has been my great honour to serve you. May the heavenly spheres reveal a true path to your heart’s desire.”

“And yours,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched with something close to a smile, and he vanished.

Out of the public eye at last, Nyssa let out a ragged sigh and reached for the Doctor’s hand. He took hers at once, folding his other hand over it. Words tumbled out in stereo.

“Are you sure you don’t want—”

“Are you sure you’re all ri—”

They broke off in a puff of laughter.

“That could have gone better,” she appended ruefully. “At least we’re both in one piece.”

“More or less.”

She was trembling— shock or fatigue, perhaps, or the horror of witnessing violent deaths, now that adrenaline was ebbing away. He drew an arm around her and led her to the edge of the bed. “So. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we… your _Majesty_?”

“Oh, Doctor.” She shook her head. “That’s not me, and you know it. I’ve had to play another’s part for so long, I’ve almost forgotten who I am.”

“Well, let’s see if we can jog your memory, then.” Reaching for the broken mask and removing it as gently as he could, he was seized with another stab of anger at the sight of the red line scored across her face. Most of it was superficial abrasion from the edge of the mask, but the sword had lacerated her cheek under one eye deeply enough to need stitches. Fresh blood welled up when the mask came away. She tried not to make a sound, but her jaw clenched.

Keeping his voice light with some difficulty, he said, “I don’t suppose you have a first aid kit handy?”

“Through there,” she said, nodding to an open doorway. “Cabinet beneath the washbasin.”

By the time he returned with the box and some linens, she had shrugged out of the Hierophant’s mantle, doublet and outer layers. She was almost back to her old self, a petite figure in a ruffled linen shirt and hose. Which made the wound all the more glaring. In all their adventures, he had seldom failed so far as to let her come to physical harm. But self-recriminations were useless. Instead, he coaxed her to lie with her head on a towel and hold still while he worked. It was a delicate operation that he dared not rush. Avoiding infection was the important thing, but it would be a pity if she was marked by her ordeal.

“I confess I’m relieved to hear you say you weren’t happy with this charade,” he said, dabbing at her face to wash the blood away. “When I first met you, you didn’t know how to lie.”

“Something I learned from you, I’m afraid,” she said. “Away from Traken, the universe is rather more complicated. Sometimes truths must be hidden.”

“Not a lesson I’m proud to have taught you.”

He set a cleansing pad against the open wound. She fell quiet, biting her lip until the analgesic in the cloth soaked in. Thankfully, the Celestenes’ dermal adhesive formed a smoother suture than stitches. Maybe he would not need Doctor Marius’ services after all. Nyssa began to relax, and he caught a glimpse of her old impish smile as he taped a medipatch to her cheek.

“Something amusing?”

“Oh,” she said, “I was just thinking: only you could make me miss the birth of my own child!”

“I rather think that was due to the man who gave you this,” he said, aggrieved.

She reached up to touch his bare face, tracing a line that would have been a mask’s edge on a native, as if noting its absence. “I know. Believe me, I’ve never been more grateful to your talent for arriving in the nick of time.” Her gaze shifted to the bloody slash down his thigh. “Or even a little after. Your turn, Doctor.”

“Nyssa,” he said, reddening. “I’ll just… wrap it up with something. We’ll be leaving soon, anyway.” He hesitated. “Won’t we?”

“Yes. Let me have a look.” Sitting up, she pulled the medical kit towards her and drew out a pair of scissors to widen the rip in his trousers, folding the fabric back neatly and taping it down. Then she tore open a whole package of antiseptic pads. With practiced efficiency, she began wiping away the blood with one hand, switching pads as needed, while drawing the dermal bonder behind in a steady line with the other. “We ought to get one of these for the TARDIS.”

Despite his discomfiture, he could not help but notice she had picked up a few skills besides subterfuge during these past few months. Rhea’s mentoring, no doubt. “So, was your, ah, dramatic persona—” he gestured towards the Hierophant’s mantle and cloak discarded on a chair— “always part of the plan?”

“ _No,_ Doctor. I offered to take Achille away for nine months and bring him back the same night, leaving no one the wiser. You could have come forward to collect me. It would have been so much easier to fake my own pregnancy.”

“ _Nyssa_.” It was his turn to sound exasperated. “Ingenious, but you know very well we’re not supposed to tinker with time like that.” A thought struck him. “I take it you expected me to play the stork!”

“A stork?” She blinked. “Whatever for? It was quite bewildering enough having to dress as an owl!”

Weariness, or a reprieve after months of mourning, spilled over into another burst of laughter. Nyssa closed up the medical kit and smiled, waiting for the fit to subside. He set his hands on her shoulders. “I have missed you, rather,” he said, when he could speak again.

“And I, you, Doctor.” Her eyes softened. “I was beginning to fear I might never see you again.”

“Yes, well.” Releasing her at once, he sprang to his feet and tested the leg. “Ah, that’s much better. Thank you, Nyssa. Now, it’s high time you got some rest. I’ll look for the TARDIS. She can’t have gone far.”

“Very well. But Doctor?”

“Hmm?”

She glanced away. “Please don’t… don’t be too long, all right?”

“I won’t.” His throat tightened. “That’s a promise.”

* * *

Shortly after dawn, they teleported to the King’s private suite, the Doctor back in his mended and laundered clothes and Nyssa in her owl-goddess costume. Achille, exhausted as he was, rose to make much of them. While the Doctor was all too mindful of history’s clock ticking by, he hated to tear Nyssa away from this simple joy that she had endured so much to achieve: rocking slowly in a floating chair, a swaddled infant clinging sleepily to her finger after an enthusiastic bottle-feeding lesson from the father. Achille was stretched out on a chaise-lounge beside them, listening raptly to Nyssa singing a Trakenite lullaby until his eyes started to drift closed along with the baby’s.

The Doctor and the Dowager had removed themselves to a couch drawn up beneath the bow windows, where Rhea filled him in on the events of the past few months. Court dances, diplomacy and politics, dodging assassins’ bullets, upgrading security systems, reengineering the Basilica’s power storage and generators, and leading the Council in the Hierophant’s stead: Nyssa had been keeping busy. No surprise there, but still, he was fiercely proud of her. Rhea, however, had other priorities.

“…and so, after all your lady’s efforts to secure an heir for us, it’s a girl-child,” she concluded.

“Well, you know,” the Doctor said, “I’ve met some splendid ruling queens in my travels.”

“I’m sure you have, but the Celestial Basilica needs its Apollo.”

“Several of those queens overcame similar cultural biases.”

“Indeed?” The Dowager narrowed her eyes. “I don’t suppose this is a veiled prophecy, _Time Lord_?”

“Prophecy? Oh, no. Absolutely not. I was only pointing out that traditions change.”

Nyssa, half listening to them, averted her face to conceal a smile.

“Fortune willing,” Achille said, rousing himself, “my people will have several centuries to acclimate to the idea. They must, for I will have no other heir.”

“That should cut down on assassination attempts, at least,” Nyssa said.

“Why, you could be right,” he said, reaching over to stroke the soft down of the baby’s head. “So, I shall retain a Minerva to safeguard me, after all.”

“And Sir Adyton?”

He sobered. “Back to his cell. But by your grace, he was able to welcome her into the light. I believe I can prevail upon the Council to show clemency. His defence of our royal persons should commute the charge of murder. They may banish him from the Celestial Basilica for a time to expiate his blood guilt— a decade, perhaps? But surely, it would be no sin were he to return to his old posting as a guardsman at the Healing Hives of Hygieia, where a royal daughter will soon be fostered.”

“He could tutor her,” Nyssa suggested. “I hope it may never be necessary, but learning self-defence might be a sensible precaution.”

“You are full of good ideas,” said Achille. “But my people will already be hard-pressed to accept a ruling queen. One who fights may be beyond their comprehension.”

“That’s part and parcel of the Minerva archetype, though, isn’t it?” the Doctor said diffidently. “I mean, if you’re batting for neoclassical Baroque, you might as well use the whole pitch.”

Achille smiled. “That is so. Perhaps that shall be her story, as Achilles at Skyros is mine. I will let her decide when she is older.” He leaned over to kiss the baby’s head. “Come what may, I shall visit often, to ensure she is properly doted upon.”

“I think you may rest assured of that,” Nyssa said, remembering the way Adyton’s dour face had brightened whenever they discussed the unborn child. “I just wish all three of you could have a proper happily ever after.”

“In time. We are not Time Lords, dear lady, yet a decade for us is not so long a span.” Achille yawned, then looked across at the Doctor. “But speaking of Time Lords, I see your champion chafes to return you to the stars. Therefore, loathe though I am to part with both my pillars of support on the same day, you and I have one last duty to perform together.”

* * *

It was not easy to disguise Achille’s figure, which would take some months to return to its proper shape. But he could pass with a girdle and the Hierophant’s elaborate costume with inner layers removed in front, especially with Nyssa plumping her own robes to play the role she had intended all along. Rhea retouched the patch on Nyssa’s cheek with grumbling disdain for men calling themselves _doctors,_ then covered it with cosmetics and the owl-mask. After issuing a summons to handpicked supporters of Achille and a few nobles whom it was not wise to slight, they fed the baby again, dressed her, and transported down to the temporary platform erected for the presentation ceremony.

Its location, like so much else in the young Hierophant’s reign, was unprecedented: not the ruined Hall of Jupiter, but a tongue of light extending like a jetty from the steep causeway that led from the cliffs up to the Basilica. Crowds of burgesses and ordinary citizens had been gathering on the mountain’s shoulder since the night began, facing the royal palace with prayers and impromptu dances and bonfires and feasting under the stars. Their eyes were dazzled by the brilliant prisms of the Celestial Basilica glowing like lantern’s glass in the morning light. A great cheer went up when a tableau of courtiers appeared on the high platform suspended beyond the cliff’s edge. Framed by their entourage with the Basilica shining behind them, Achille and Nyssa seemed to be bathed in divine light.

A flourish of trumpets silenced the crowd. The Hierophant stepped forward stiffly, his gilded breastplate and elaborately-plumed headdress so ostentatious that Nyssa wondered if anyone would notice the misdirection. His clear, authoritative tenor carried easily across the heights. After months of his public-speaking voice issuing from the modulator of her own mask, it was disconcerting to hear it coming from elsewhere. It took her a moment to focus on the content of his words rather than the sound.

“— and I am not deaf to your prayers. The blessed reign of Apollo has been marred by treachery and disorder near the very apex of our hierarchy. My grief is deep, no less for the loss of my own misguided kin than for their sins. Even greater, for all those hurt or killed by their insanity. We shall honour the fallen in due course.

“But from the teeth of the tempest now comes a promise of new life to re-hallow our defiled halls. So let us postpone sorrow and renew our covenant of harmony with one another in the bright light of morning. Assume a reverent attitude, my people, and cast open your hearts’ gates to welcome blessings of a higher order. I give you— Phoebe Nyssa Feronia Estelline-Avenant, born in Light!”

Nyssa smiled privately at the grandiose concatenation of names. Achille had mischievously explained that _Phoebe_ could be adjusted to _Phoebus_ should the need arise. Which, if she had read the Doctor’s hints correctly, was not fated to happen.

Arms fluttering with feathers, she raised little Phoebe skyward, so that the sunlight reflecting from silver threads in the baby’s presentation gown appeared to swath her in a nimbus of fire. Phoebe began to wriggle and howl. Scattered laughter broke out amidst the applause. Nyssa lowered her quickly and began to rock her again, humming the lullaby she remembered from her mother. The crowd quieted, too, a murmuring hush of approval carried on the breeze.

“Behold my joy,” Achille said. “I ask you all to pray for her. But now, if you will forgive a doting husband, there is one last thing I must say. For base rumours have reached our ears, unworthy of the esteem in which you hold us. Know that I love my Queen, my wise and fair Minerva, who has vouchsafed this treasure to me.” So saying, he removed his mask— stubble augmented by a false beard for now, until he was quite himself again— executed a neat quarter-turn, raised Nyssa’s mask with tenderness, and kissed her before commoners and nobles alike. The nobility would be scandalised, but the applause this time was deafening, drowning out the baby’s cries.

Nyssa adjusted Phoebe so she wouldn’t be squeezed between them and smiled into Achille’s dancing eyes. It was only pantomime, but he was a pleasant enough kisser. And she recognised the private message he was conveying under cover of public display. There were other kinds of love besides romantic or physical. She would miss him, just as she missed Tegan.

Straightening, she caught a glimpse of the Doctor’s studiously blank expression behind the king’s plumage. There were as many kinds of masks as love, she reflected wryly.

Achille repositioned his mask over his face, took the baby tenderly from her arms and turned smartly to face the crowd.

“ _Apollo oriens!”_ he shouted, so that his voice echoed off the jutting rocks on either side of the natural amphitheatre below.

_“Etiam Minerva!”_

The courtiers bracketing them on either side of the turned and began to process towards the back of the platform, offering reverent bows and deep courtesies to the royal couple as they passed. The sliding road bore them up in a swift current towards the palace.

It was time.

A very real flutter of… not doubt, exactly, but certainly apprehension… clutched at Nyssa’s stomach. Her knees felt wobbly. She was suddenly conscious again of the dizzying drop below, from which they were held aloft by gravitic engineering only a little more reliable than TARDIS shielding.

She took Achille’s elbow, turned away from the cheering onlookers in an elegant toe-point turn, promenaded at his side to the rear of the dais, and stepped down onto the moving path. Her eyes closed. Letting her hand drop, she pitched forward lifelessly in an apparent swoon, forcing herself not to break her fall with her arms. The forcefields cushioned the impact. Scattered cries and screams rose up from below as she began to ascend. Lying like a bird felled by flying into a window, she was speeding up and away before anyone could help her.

“ _Pia Mater,_ Lord Doctor, attend!” the Hierophant cried out, his voice almost lost in the pandemonium that erupted. The Dowager, leaning on the Doctor’s elbow, pushed forward, struggling to reach the fallen Queen. “ _Refugium!”_

Bright sunlight and horrified uproar cut off like a shutter falling. The four of them and the baby were back in Achille’s antechamber. Phoebe began to wail again.

Nyssa sat up, removed her mask and exhaled. “Well, that’s that. I hope I was convincing.”

“You were,” Achille said, cuddling the child and looking down into her tiny reddened face. “I think you frightened her.”

“You frightened _me_ ,” the Doctor muttered under his breath, offering Nyssa a hand up.

She stood gratefully and spread her arms to take the baby one last time. “Oh, Phoebe. It’s all right. I wish I could stay. Hush, now, hush. Don’t be afraid.” No wonder the baby was crying. Nyssa could feel it too, an aura of hysteria carried on the Lattice’s psychic field, instead of its usual soothing hum. She regretted having to add one more tragedy to the night’s upheavals. Achille would have his hands full restoring public morale.

“Here, let me,” the Doctor said at her elbow. He set two fingers on Phoebe’s puckered forehead and closed his eyes in concentration. Slowly her sobs subsided. The baby gave once last peep and smiled vaguely up at them, waving her fists. The Doctor beamed at her. “There you go. Dreadfully annoying, all those minds wailing at you. I feel the same way about lutes.”

Nyssa smiled, handed Phoebe back to her father and the feathered cloak across to Rhea, and returned to the Doctor’s side. “Then we’d better get you away from here, before they start up again.”

“Why, he is a wizard,” Achille said. “My thanks, Lord Doctor, for all the gifts you have given us. My lady, I could dance a season and never convey what you have meant to me these many months. It has been a _pas de deux_ I shall remember and cherish all my life. Now reclaim your place in the firmament, dear friend, and may the gods watch over you.”

“And you, Achille. Take care of yourself. Goodbye, Phoebe! All my love.” She bent to kiss the girl’s brow, then bobbed a grave courtesy to the Dowager. “Your Grace.”

* * *

The TARDIS was waiting for them on the far side of the canyon. Having discovered her by aircar  shortly after dawn, the Doctor had dropped off a portable transmat pad instead of trying to land on the ledge where she was perched. Now they were standing beside her, looking back at the magnificent castle in the clouds which had been Nyssa’s home for so many months. Wisps of fog, shining in the sunlight, were rising up from the canyon’s cool depths, slowly veiling the gleaming structure like Avalon withdrawing from mortal sight.

Nyssa stood quite still, trying to commit the Celestial Basilica’s translucent facets and graceful lines to memory. She felt oddly hollow. But of course, she had become accustomed to the psychic thrum of the Lattice, which on most days had steadied her with a pervasive sense of well-being.

The Doctor cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want to leave?” She could hear reluctance in every word, much as he tried to hide it. “The Celestial Basilica is unique in the universe, although it’s not without its problems. You could be a positive force for change.”

“And defy the Laws of Time?” She shook herself out of her reverie and smiled at him. “No, Doctor, but thank you. It’s time to move on. You taught me this, too: we can’t solve everyone’s problems. We just have to solve the _right_ problem.”

He relaxed and breathed out. “Precisely.”

It would be so much easier, for all its imperfections, to embrace the peace that the Basilica had to offer. But her sojourn in the clouds had clarified her resolve. Now, more than ever, she knew she must help those who lived outside castles and closed gardens, outside the protection of healers and warders. She had tried to do so on Mondas. There were other Mondases out there.

“I’m looking for a place where my skills can make a difference to those who have almost nothing, people whose future isn’t yet fixed in history. Until then, I want to travel with you, Doctor. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

No doubt the Doctor would have been deeply embarrassed to know that she thought of him in the same flowery terms as the Celestenes. Knight, champion, lord: he was all those things. Yet the high-born did not have a monopoly on the most important title of all: _friend_.

Something of her thoughts must have showed in her face, because he stared at her for a raw moment before taking refuge behind a boyish grin. “Well, we ought to be going then, hadn’t we?”

As he unlocked the TARDIS door, a distant, solemn _gong_ began to reverberate across the canyon. It sounded like a titanic bell submerged beneath ocean’s waves.

“The Queen is dead,” she murmured.

The Doctor turned her away and drew her gently inside. “Long live the Queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: Le Médecin Malgré Lui - "The Doctor in Spite of Himself," a Baroque play by Molière.
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> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with me until the end. Your comments, your patience and your support are very much appreciated!


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